


She tastes like storytime and fall

by Ibbyliv



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Asexual Taystee, Bookstores, Drug Use, F/F, Fluff, Genderfluid Stella, Hurt/Comfort, Oblivious, Pining, Smoking, Smut, Social Justice, Unrequited Love, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4341419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why’re you being such a dick, uh Nichols?”</p><p>Oh you know, it’s not something she expects you to understand. It’s a lesbian thing, about Red not having named the coffee shop “The Bean Flicker” and her remarkable Piroshky “The Девственность Popper” so that girls like Lorna Morello, with pinup curly heads up in the clouds and exquisite chests full of dreams about prince charmings in naphthalene sweaters wouldn’t even dare to bring their CVs past the door. About falling for the straight girl, and falling so hard that she misses breaking her neck on rock bottom.</p><p>“I just haven’t gotten any sleep, is all,” she says somewhat softened as she lights her cigarette, taking in a deep drag of smoke. “Y’know how this shit is, I’m like, the Fight Club guy, only I punch more imaginary shit up, and prefer using my fists for the actual, existent pussy that he didn’t get.” <em>And an imaginary conscience, however fucked up She may be, is sure as hell better than an imaginary boyfriend</em>, she wants to say, but she most clearly doesn’t.</p><p>
  <b>[From: Vause|8:09] Blonde, qt dog, dressed like Coachella. Went ur way</b>
  <br/>
  <b>[From: Vause|8:11] I’m not going to beg u, Nichols</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood Piroshkies

**Author's Note:**

> The AU cross between coffee shops, bookshops, tattoo parlors and the essential Les Mis Modern AU social justice activism group. I'm trash, I know, and if it's really bad then call me out on it. I'm being honest. Season 3 just fucked me up too much I had to write this, and all the experience I have is from Les Mis fandom, so I'm so sorry if the characterizations are shit. If I write anything in a fucked up way, out of ignorance, or lack of education please tell me, esp if a characterization is racist, LGBTQIA+phobic and the like.  
> It's going to be slowburn, but trust me. I'm dedicated enough.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are more than welcome. All embarrassing typos are mine.  
> Title - She by Doddleoddle

Ironically enough, it starts with a pretentious pseudointellectual James Franco fuckboy Instagram account, and the essential _hashtag cherry trees._

“Ughnnng _see_? I told ya he’d make a post about us!” a screaming Lorna Morello practically lands on Nicky’s shoulder, waving her phone with the worn pink jelly case on her face, and a magenta handwoven dish towel in the other hand.

Nicky squints slightly, trying to focus on the entirely too bright screen with aching, puffy eyes that haven’t heteronormatively fucked Morpheus in quite a fucking while. “Hey that’s like, so touching,” she squirms at the tackily filtered photo. “Tell me about how he stuck it in you under a flamingo tree somewhere in Brooklyn.” In her defence, she hasn’t slept in so long she can practically hear in her cranky head the sound of her Mona Lisa eyebrow as she arches it root deep in the mop of her hair.

“Fuck you Nichols,” Lorna chirps so cheerfully it’s almost affectionate enough to make Nicky’s intestines sing. “For your information,” she heavily accentuates the word, taking the phone away to croon at it, “Christopher’s like, way too sensitive, especially for a guy. He posted a photo of cherry blossoms, which is a _straight_ reference to a discussion we once had about spring!”

“The straight part’s fucking classic! My favorite!,” Nicky murmurs, standing up in that occasional spasmodic way that Red disapproves of, throwing hair all over the place.

“Whatd’ ya say, Nicky?”

“I said, it’s nice to see that you both like pink!” she smiles widely, fiddling in the pocket of her flannel shirt for a smoke.

She knows for the soft spot she’s hit before she even shuts her stupid, restless mouth around her cigarette, and she knows it from the way Lorna’s red lips press tightly together, and woefully enough, not against her own, thirsty ones. “Why’re you being such a dick, uh Nichols?”

Oh you know, it’s not something she expects you to understand. It’s a lesbian thing. Nicky has only vaguely heard about it herself. About having your bad, dysfunctional heart kicked up under your boobs with a platform wedge every day or rather, every night, in those hours that shit is hardly supposed to make any sense. About you being all touchy feely and perfectly aware that you electrocute her with every brush of your knuckles as you serve her that disgusting pisswater coffee you can’t even bring yourself to make, black like both your souls or whatever. About Red not having named the coffee shop “The Bean Flicker” and her remarkable Piroshky “The Девственность Popper” so that girls like Lorna Morello, with pinup curly heads up in the clouds and exquisite chests full of dreams about prince charmings in naphthalene sweaters wouldn’t even dare walking past the door with their CVs. About falling for the straight girl, and falling so hard that she misses breaking her neck on rock bottom.

“I just haven’t gotten any sleep, is all,” she says somewhat softened as she lights her cigarette, taking in a deep drag of smoke. “Y’know how this shit is, I’m like, the Fight Club guy, only I punch more imaginary shit up, and prefer using my fists for the actual, existent pussy that he didn’t get.” _And an imaginary conscience, however fucked up She may be, is sure as hell better than an imaginary boyfriend,_ she wants to say, but she most clearly doesn’t.

Because, you know, it's kind of a truth universally acknowledged that, while Morello will drive everyone crazy blabbering about Christopher's social media, she'll never allow any glimpse about his actual internet identity to be taken, so that no one else will be able to stalk him but herself. Needless to say, something always happens with Christopher's car when he's supposed to come pick her up in ungodly hours of the morning when her shift at the coffee shop finishes, and he's always too busy being a shitty dj in a dodgy alley to fuckin show up during his fiancé's night shift. At least they know he exists, complete with a Youtube channel where he uploads his crappy mixes, and shit. But hey, delusional Morello may be, but she's also a sweet, harmless girl, who's willing to hold Nicky a bit too much when everything goes to hell, makes shit coffee and not-so-shit hot chocolate, and makes orange lipstick look more like matte sunsets and less like glittery carrots. And Nicky can't stand being the one to ever hurt her. At least not intentionally.

“It’s okay, kid. We’re okay.”

“Oh, I’m glad!” Morello smiles, returning to wiping the last glasses and stifling a yawn behind the bar. “Now you gotta help though, what d'ya think you’re doing here all the time without contributing to the work?”

“Hey, Red may be my ma’, but that doesn’t mean I work here too! I come here as a _customer,_ remember, ‘cause I can't sleep, also remember the part where I leave you huge tips? I fix shit is what I do, this is not my work, I ain’t getting paid for it! After all I _should_ be getting paid for sitting here every night, hearing you go for your prince charming and his microscopic dick!”

“The reason Red doesn’t pay you’s because you’re rich,” scowls Lorna, slapping Nicky’s head with the towel over the bar, and taking her fourth Darth Vader mug, empty of coffee, in order to wash it. “And if you wanna know Nichols, Christopher’s very well endowned!”

“En… Jesus, Morello,” Nicky sighs deeply. “You mean _endowed_?”

“No, I mean endowned!” Lorna growls, tapping her silver wedges angrily on the floor as she walks around the tables to wipe them clean before she closes. “’Cause I go down on him!”

“Ew,” Nicky drags another one of her smoke. “Just. Spare me, willya? I’m going out to finish my smoke, this place stinks of hetero filth.” And with that she walks outside, to light another cigarette. In reality they both know that, when she goes back in the café, Nicky will help her store the mugs and the leftover pies, and will mop the floor to make sure that Lorna won’t slip on her heels, before Red and Gina arrive for the morning shift.

But there’s still time for that. The early rising student activists have arrived to protest outside Cesar’s 24hr pizzeria across the street, the sky’s cleansing itself white, and Nicky still has her smoke.

.

Piper Chapman arrives with Chocolate Granola, her Dachshund that she walks in horrid morning hours, before taking her back home to begin her day of selling fancy soaps with American Vintage Holly Lamepants. Nicky has to admit that disheveled is a good look on Piper, and she overly enjoys the idea that she looks like she had to run beyond her greatest measure. Morello abandons the espresso machine and throws herself at the puppy, hugging her through incessant throws of babytalking.

“The fuck happened?” Nicky follows her friend and her dog in the café, smirking in amusement. “A fucking tornado chased you two?”

“You could say so,” Piper sighs heavily, collapsing on a chair, Granola’s leash still tied around her hand. “She’s got her menses and apparently that brings all the boys in the yard, so there was this _huge_ black dog, like Sirius Black only hornier, so today he climbed on her, and she’s like, so small I was afraid he’d crash her, and then he tried… humping my leg? And I couldn’t get him off!”

Morello can’t hide her snickers as she prepares Piper’s Venti Double Chestnut Praline Eggnog Latte Soy No Whip Almond Crust and Sprinkles together with An Entire Ass. Nicky gives Granola some cheese for the sandwiches and pets her, raising her eyes at her exhausted blond friend.

“Okay, first of all, since you’ve got a shop to open and Barry’s got like, a dick to jerk, why can’t he walk the dog instead in the mornings, to help you out, uh?”

“It’s _Larry_ , okay?” Piper scowls. “Larry’s a cat person, it’s so kind of him that he lets me have Granola, I can’t expect him to walk her as well!”

“Oh, so Harry gets to shove his hot dog in your pussy, but he can’t bring himself to love your dog?” Nicky raises an eyebrow, earning a well-deserved smack on her ass from Morello.

“Here,” the Italian hands Piper a wrapped Vatrushka. “Red left this for ya. Says you’re too thin.”

“Is it because of my breasts?” Piper sits up, alarmed. “God, it’s because of my breasts.”

“Relax, Blondie,” Nicky lifts Chocolate on her lap, to have her face properly licked. “Red wouldn’t imply that. She’s all body positivity and shit when it comes to her girls. ‘Sides, I’d suck your tits,” she curves her lips, not failing to wink at Morello’s general direction, striving to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

“You’re a fucking pervert and also disgusting,” Piper says with a smile.

“But you love me so much.”

“You know I do. Thank you for the coffee, Lorna,” Piper smiles, standing up and tugging on Granola’s leash. “I should be going, leave space for the customers that’ll start to come. Tell Red I’m grateful for the Vatrushka, and for being considered as, apparently, one of her girls? I mean where did that come from? Will you ever forget the time she served me tampon marmalade to teach me a lesson for insulting her apple crumble?”

“Scarred for life, that’s what we all are!” Morello croons, taking her apron off.

“Russian maternal figures, man,” Nicky shrugs her shoulders. “Lessons are all that they teach spoilt Upper East Side brats with Freudian complexes like us.” She escorts Piper and her dog outside. “To answer your previous question, it’s the hip lotion.”

“How does she like it?”

“Aah, orgasmic to say the least! Can’t stop praising your crafty genes every time she puts her hands on her hips holding a spoon, like a Weasley matriarch.”

Piper looks satisfied. They stand on the pavement as Granola sniffs around, and her eyes fall on the group of students holding signs and shouting slogans outside Cesar’s pizzeria. “They still protesting?”

“Soso and squad?” Nicky squints at their direction. “’Course they are. Keeps our heads clear. Now they’re Mendoza’s problem. Serves Norma right for abandoning Red as well.”

She will never forget the day when the student activists arrived with placards outside Red’s café, to practically protest Morello’s rights, because apparently it was inhumane to work a night shift. Nevertheless, Nicky managed to shove them away easily enough, letting them know that Mendoza practices fake witchcraft, now featuring a psychic Norma. She has to admit she feels slightly guilty for bringing this up on Gloria, who makes better pizza than most Italian places around (even though it’s proper Tacos that this quarter needs, let alone coming from the Latinas), but it serves Cesar right for probably hosting a drug lab in the basement – Nicky would eat her hair to prove her assumption’s true – as well as Aleida for being a shit mother. Besides, Soso and squad will sure as fuck get dazzled by the magic shit soon enough and drop the placards to form a cult. They’ll probably even praise Norma as their god, who the fuck knows what’s inside rich activist kids’ heads.

(Nicky. Nicky knows, because she was one of them once. Nicky knows and Nicky knew, before excess happened, before she started hating everything, including her guts – especially her guts. She always needed something to get addicted on. Once upon a time, it was social justice and a spoonful of naiveté. Today, it’s veins full of caffeine.

She never tried to act like the middle stage never happened. The one people don’t dare to name, the one that comes in plastic bags and ends in them. She just wishes she could speak about it as if it was over.)

“Hey, you didn’t tell me how you got away from the Dog that tried to fuck your Dog!”

“Watch your tongue around my baby!” Piper hisses as Nicky kneels down to smack a kiss on Granola’s hanging ears. “Well yeah, it was kind of weird? I mean, I cringe just thinking about it, because I made a fool of myself! I’m a grown ass woman that can’t get rid of a horny dog, but there was that _other_ grown ass woman like, really _grown_ and really _ass_ or, both of them together, I don’t know –” she doesn’t fail in catching Nicky’s attention, and she won’t pretend she’s not fucking excited to finally hear the cleancut Piper Chapman express the Sapphic side that only one woman alive can stir in every other, at least one that Nicky’s aware of… “I mean, I’m not sure she’s even real? She burst out… out of this tattoo parlor and she looked like an amazon even though it’s not even 8am and she was wearing those glasses and had this voice… like, does she start her morning shift at 8am in that tattoo parlor, or did she just finish her night shift, I don’t even know. And she calmed the dog with that voice and gave him a biscuit and held him while I walked away with Granola but, but before I walked away she said something to me that I didn’t quite grasp, probably because it’s morning, I’m rambling Nicky, am I rambling?”

“You said amazon,” Nicky presses her tongue against her mouth in undisguisable triumph. “Do you by any chance mean Rockabilly Glasses Sex Goddess Amazon with old school tattoos?”

“Yes! Why, do we know her?”

“With tits like the sun?”

“Wait, do you mean big like the sun or hot like the – what the hell, Nicky, do you think I walk my dog to stare at people’s _breasts_?”

“Course you don’t,” Nicky licks her lips, full of meaning. “Gary wouldn’t like that, would he?”

“It’s Larry, and one of those days, you all need to grasp that bisexuality is a concept which exists,” Piper shouts louder than necessary in the middle of the street, almost grasping the attention of the students across it. “Right. Yeah. I’ll go now,” she makes one of her priceless faces, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“It’s Vause,” she coughs.

“What?” Piper knits her eyebrows suspiciously.

“I said _soaps,_ gurl _._ Go sell some fucking soaps!”

“I will,” she tugs on the leash angrily. “Come on, Granola!”

Nicky laughs triumphantly at the vibration in her pocket, before she even pulls her phone out to snort at the screen.

**[From: Vause|8:09] Blonde, qt dog, dressed like Coachella. Went ur way**

**[From: Vause|8:11] I’m not going to beg u, Nichols**

.

Cheesy as it may sound, Red and Gina arrive with the sun, bearing pans full of pie and muffins, as well as two apricot piroshkies for Nicky and Lorna, and spring is fucking ridiculous for making Nicky notice such poetic shit, like the fucking sun and Lorna’s laugh that burns her and everything in between. “Want me to drive ya to the suburbs?” she offers like she always does. Nicky is no fool to object because, thank fuck, the caffeine in which she’s developed immunity is starting to wear off, which means she’ll finally pass out when she gets in the flat her mother’s paying for to keep her out of her hair. The biological mother, that is. The one who gave the womb but not a single fuck. A metaphorical one, at least.

The thing is, they have a deal: Nicky doesn’t tell Red about the glasses Lorna breaks because she’s such a klutz and Lorna doesn’t tell Red about the excessive amounts of coffee that Nicky consumes every night. She had that deal with Norma back in the time when she did the night shift, before she left Red for Mendoza but, then again, Norma didn’t even speak to give her away in first place, and she’d always start judging and stop serving Nicky as a customer somewhere around 4am. Morello, on the other hand, has somehow managed to sneak the last papercup full of filter coffee in the car just in case for her. Nicky’s heart grows three sizes, maybe because the coffee’s full of sugar, but then again so is Morello, and all that Nicky can think of while putting her seatbelt one because well, Morello is driving, is how much she wants to top it with the cherries of her lips.

They’re silent as they drive, which is rare, especially for Morello. Maybe it’s a 8:16 am thing, to be silent, or maybe it’s one of those occasions when Nicky feels shut out of Morello’s cage, and at the same time eager to crawl up inside her and feel as much as there is to be given to her. It’s not exactly lying, not when it doesn’t involve words, but Nicky feels deceived in any case.

Morello pulls the brake on Nicky’s street and softly punches her shoulder. “See ya tonight, Nichols,” she quirks the corner of her lips. “Or will I?”

“You can count on me, kid.”

Her stomach feels jumpy as she walks out of the car and into the building. Always her fucking stomach, uh elevator? How exactly are you helping? Isn’t her heart fucking enough?

Nicky goes to sleep.


	2. Appropriately Sized Lattes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We got a cycling date, actually.”  
> “As in, you’ll let her ride you?”  
> “As in, I’ll teach her how to ride, Vause, the fuck is wrong with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so first of all thank you so much for reading my shit and for being so kind about it, you don't know how much I appreciate it! I was spending the week at a friend's, trying to remember how people do summer break so yeah, that's why it's taken me so long and why this filler chapter is quite bad, but I'm working on the next one which I hope is looking more promising.  
> Here I introduce Taystee and Poussey, there's a big chance I'm writing them really badly but I adore my girls so please tell me your opinion on that, I'll take it very seriously. I also find myself incapable of writing Morello, even though she's the one I relate to the most. I obviously can't help the fandom Les Mis references, I hope it's not too tacky. The song Nichols and Morello listen to in the car is the Riptide cover by Jasmine Thompson.  
> I hope this doesn't completely suck. Expect an update soon enough.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

Taystee is wearing a dress today, which is rare occurrence, and shouldn’t be. It’s mustard and teal, and looks beautiful on her. Poussey tells her so, between placing The Madding Crowd and Hunger Games on the shelves. Taystee ruffles her brush-like Mohawk, dyed purple to follow Nymphadora Tonks' footsteps. It brings a smile that doesn’t leave Poussey’s face until they reach Edith Wharton.

“You finished the Song of Achilles yet?”

“Nah, too much testosterone for me, bruh. I like me some girls, y’know?”

Taystee tucks her tongue. “That’s kinda fucked up, P. The fact that you think of these two as mutually exclusive.”

Poussey thinks about it for a while, shame starts crippling beneath her skin. “Shit you’re right,” she murmurs, taking a step back to inspect their work. “Hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Miss Claudette appears from behind the wooden stairs that lead on the second floor of her tiny bookshop, and Poussey is almost thankful.

“Is it going alright, girls?” she asks. “Ready to put some order to the philosophy section?”

“Sure thing, Miss Claudette, what you got us there?” Taystee grins, swaying her way towards the older lady.

She presses her lips to a faint grin. “I brought you some coconut cake. You’ve done good work this week.”

“This shit’s awesome!” Poussey’s face lights up, as the two of them practically grab the plates from her hands. “Yo thanks, Ma’ame Claudette!”

“Red also called to send your coffees with Gina, so please remind me your order, Taystee?”

Taystee wears her Amanda accent and flicks her wrist, “I’d like a soy cappuccino mocha latte with extra almond glaze and cream, please! Mackenzie, how does that sound?”

Poussey throws her hands in the air in mock shock. “It sounds like calories, Amanda! Also sounds like how we white YA novel authors would describe black skin!”

“That’s enough with you two,” Miss Claudette scolds them, unable to hide the hint of a smile. “Off with your work, take Suzanne’s example and be polite! If I find any coconut on The Romantics, I swear I’ll get cross!”

“Yeah, as if Byron’s face could get any more powdery!” snickers Taystee.

“Yo, where’s Suzanne?” Poussey whispers as Miss Claudette walks away.

Taystee sighs heavily. “Writing fanfiction hidden in the broom cupboard. I tell you, if she ships Mme Thénardier, Dobby and Nick Fury again, I swear I’ll confiscate that bullshit.” Poussey tries to look away with amused guilt. “Hey, I’m serious!”

“Look, fanfiction’s good, okay? Fanfiction’s everywhere! Even damned Shakespeare was fanfiction! Not to mention the Song of Achilles… and Wicked! I mean look, this shit be tight! Suzanne might climb up to the classics one day, uh? We could sell her book and be filthy rich!”

Taystee breaks into dance, humming “If I was a Rich Girl”, and Poussey follows suit, Kant’s Metaphysics of Morals in hand.

“I can hear you!” calls Miss Claudette from the poetry room.

“She can, but he Kant,” Taystee giggles, pointing at the book.

Poussey shakes her head, opening it in a random page of the categorical imperative. “Fucking white men, man. Ordering you around even when they dead.”

They hear the bell of the door. “Coffee’s here, Mackenzie,” Taystee makes a gesture. “Ready to let your _café au lait_ glory shine through?”

And somewhere along the way Poussey sits back with Audre Lorde in her pocket and lets her speak, and lets her do the laughing and the jokes while she just looks at her, while she focuses on keeping a balance, on walking on thin strings and pulling them together. Sometimes Poussey is out of words, the little and the big ones, the smell of old pages, the coconut and the teal and the right thing to hum under her breath. Sometimes all that’s left beneath her tongue is a simple _I wonder what kissing you would feel like,_ and Dumbledore assuring her that curiosity is not a sin. Sometimes Poussey thinks of ruins, those of friendships and those of herself, scattered all around the globe, in places where she grew up to be a metaphor.

There should be laws and shit, for falling in love with your best friend. Or maybe there are, and Washington has always been a delinquent.

.

It begins with Morello finding out that Nichols can’t drive to save her life, and goes downhill from there. Apparently Nicky is very touchy when it comes to the taxi she once _borrowed_ and crashed and almost landed her sorry ass to jail, so Morello attempts to make her feel better by mentioning that she doesn’t know how to cycle.

“You fucking kidding me, right?” Nicky gapes in shock. “Do you actually not know how to cycle? Like, what the hell was wrong with your childhood?”

“There were things wrong with my childhood slightly wronger than cycling, Nichols,” Morello murmurs, focused on the steering wheel, and Nicky isn’t even going to address _wronger._ She lays back against the lowered passenger’s seat, taking in several details of the moment that aren’t yet ruined by the absence of Morello’s skin beneath her lips. It’s the grogginess of the people that wake while she heads to her bed (city that never sleeps her ass). It’s the clutter of Morello’s bracelets as she changes speed, the sounds her red lips make as she hums along the indie shit that’s on the radio, the twitching underneath her sparkly sunglasses that reminds Nicky of the secrets she has to guess, the stories that need to be written about her, the conversations she would be afraid to start in another life and afraid to end in this one. Of the loneliness full of skin and teeth and tongues, and fingers wandering under denim waistbands, of drifting together to the dark side and their feet tangled together in sunrises the way they should be.

Turns out she’s an open fucking book, sold at Miss Claudette’s little shop of wonders, in the ancient tragedy section, complete with wings of wax and shit, or maybe in the low comedy one, handed out in flyers by Soso and squad, painted cheesy on the front seat of Morello’s car.

“Something about ya feels comfortable,” Lorna murmurs, eyes focused on the road. She licks the sugar from her lips and leaves them curved.

_One day she’s gonna make the sun retire, and fuckin Icarus will be without a job. In this economy, he should consider sucking a dick or two. He should consider a break, he should consider gnawing on his lips until they bleed, and wearing leather again, for the sake of melting and of fucking shit up._

Nicky doesn’t shudder, not at the low blow, it’s not what she does. She’s grown up and grown old and grown paper dry, like a disposable cup she sips coffee from. All she does is choke from them, but she does it in fucking silence. “That’s real smooth,” she utters hoarsely. Morello seems proud of herself. “Hey, you know what we should do? I should teach you how to cycle.”

“It’s because you like bossing me around, isn’t it?” Morello hides a smirk.

“Well, _I’m sorry_ for wanting to fill you up with late childhood memories!”

“Is that the only thing you want to fill me up with?”

“Fuck this, forget I offered –”

“Yes,” Morello cuts her.

“What?”

“The answer’s yes. I got the night off on Friday. How does 2am sound t’you? Streets will be empty!”

Nicky’s heart feels like a fucking banjo. “You got a bike?”

“I can trade the neighbor kid’s with a cake, I’ll figure som’thing out.”

“Friday sounds good, kid,” Nicky smirks, lion roaring in triumph.

“I’ll pick you up at 2.” The car stops and Nicky gathers her cigarettes and keys, ready to get out.

“Hey Morello,” she stops, one knee out the door. “Nice jacket.”

Her face lights up as she leans out of the car. “Thank you, Nichols.”

 _I got a lump in my throat ‘cause_  
You’re gonna sing the words  
wrong

She’s working on it.

.

It’s a nice jacket, Lorna is satisfied with it.

She’s been wearing it all week, since the day she got it. Christopher has already seen her once with it when she went to hear him play last Friday at the club. She doesn’t blame him for not coming to talk to her. She knows how busy he is, how it’s only his job to talk to all those other girls, he can’t do anything else, and she _knows_ how he noticed the leather on her, how he loves it. She can’t have Christopher spot her wearing the same clothes again, a girl’s gotta know how to shine, especially when she’s always tried so hard, especially in the middle of an Italian heatwave somewhere in Manhattan, with kids running around, and maybe she’s one of them, maybe she’s grown up too fast.

This jacket has done its job. It’s a nice jacket, but Lorna doesn’t need it anymore.

She waits in the car until the shop assistant arrives to unlock the door and open it for its morning shift. Lorna has been playing one of Christopher’s mixes out of her phone, trying hard to get keen on the kind of music he plays, always with a lump on her throat, a lump she isn’t currently willing to taste, not on such a nice sunny day, not after Nicky paid her another compliment.

She tucks her scissors under the front seat and walks out of the car and into the shop, a practiced smile already sported, her eyebrows always at her aid. No person with such eyebrows can be a liar, no person with such eyebrows can be anything but innocent and elegant and respectable. If Franny knew that tip it would save her so much time trying to get herself a decent paying job.

“Hello,” she walks to the counter, jacket neatly wrapped under her elbow.

“Hey there,” the assistant smiles. “How can I help you?”

“Well I don’t know if you remember me, I got this jacket from ya the other week, here’s the receipt, but I’m afraid, ah… you see I tried to wear it today?” she unfolds it up, spreading it in front of the other woman. “It appears that it’s all ripped under the sleeve over here, see? It’s almost impossible to wear!”

The assistant looks baffled, if not astounded, not to mention slightly hesitant to deal with the situation she’s got in front of her. “That’s a bad rip, almost looks like it wasn’t sewn properly?” She run her fingers through the uneven, frayed cut. “Or like it was caught on a fence or something? Maybe it happened after you wore it?”

“No I’m sorry, you see I hadn’t worn it before today, I had kept it in the bag for a special occasion, my boyfriend was playing in that club, and I had all the ensemble ready, with matching boots and all y’know. Aw, don’t worry,” she sighs comfortingly, “these things happen, I’m sure it wasn’t the shop’s fault, but you see, I can’t possibly keep it that way.”

“Are you sure?” the other woman murmurs, taking the jacket in her hands to inspect it more closely. “It doesn’t seem like something that could happen… I honestly don’t know, I do apologize but I know as a matter of fact that we double check our products before getting them out…”

“I know, I know, but you see it’s happened to me before, and with a much more expensive dress, they’d sold it to me with a third sleeve sewn, obviously an industrial fault!”

“Are you serious?”

“Damned serious I am, but this was a quite unfortunate situation, as they refused to do anything about it when I returned.”

“Don’t worry miss, I suppose we can look for a replacement even though it’s quite hard to find your size during sales period.”

“Thank you, you are so kind!” Lorna croons. “I haven’t shopped from you before but now I will definitely keep the quality of your customer service in mind!”

“Just let me browse through the stash.”

“If you wouldn’t mind –” the assistant turns to look at her. “If of course it’s not against the policy of your shop, is it possible, y’know, that I get a refund?”

She walks out of the shop, every time slightly prouder than the last one.

It crosses her mind only with her hands on the stirring wheel and a full purse sitting on an empty passenger’s seat. Nicky liked the jacket, and for a moment there the rules changed, for a moment she regretted it because with Nicky she didn’t feel like she needed to wear new clothes all the time, but to wear the same thing again and again. She didn’t know why she cared so much, girls give girls compliments because that’s what they do. She doesn’t know how she feels about the effect that Nicky Nichols has n her, about the way she clings on her opinion, something jolting inside her every time she gives her that horrid smirk, or does funny things with her mouth behind her mug, licking strolls and teasing spoons. Nichols has her way with girls, and the fact that, apparently Lorna knows she’d be much upset if she didn’t get the same attention reassures her about it being an ego thing. Maybe it’s just a lesbian thing, to make you feel special, to make you miss things you’ve never had.

And she loves Nicky, she really does. She doesn’t know if she loves all of her, if she loves her that way, but for some of the visible and the concealed ones, the vulnerable bits and the half-eaten sarcasm, for every glance that phases out of the window at 3am, for that she’s sure. It’s just, she wonders if she should love her through that odd middle path she doesn’t really want to cross, through the effort of trying to convince herself that it isn’t real, that it’s a lie, not who she is but a thing born in her head. What she needs is the real thing, the man she’s in love with, the hot Captain Von Trapp to her Maria, and the confidence that comes with songs. For the timebeing, however, all that she has is the house full of kids.

“You’re home,” Franny enters the kitchen just after Lorna drops the keys on the table, in that sneaky way of hers that scares the shit out of people.

“That I am,” Lorna grins, peering into the fridge for leftovers.

“How was work? Been meeting any new people?”

“Y’know how night shifts are,” she shrugs. “Drunk old men, drunk rich teens, drunk single mums who’ve had enough…” She grinds to a halt, turning her face away with guilt. “Night shifts are quiet. You’re up early yourself.”

“Giacomo is teething, this kid I swear to God.”

“He’s _teething,_ Franny. It’s not like it’s his fault.”

“I’ve forgotten what sleep feels like.”

“It must be some sorta an epidemic.”

Franny frowns, taking the bowl of mac and cheese from Lorna’s hand to heat it. “Why? You sleep enough through the day, don’t ya?”

“I was talking about Nicky.”

“Shoulda figured out myself,” Franny mutters with spiked interest. “ _The_ Nicky,huh? ‘Cause it seems to me you talk about her, I’ve almost forgotten what Christopher’s name sounds like!”

“She’s my _friend,_ ” Lorna states sharply, surprising herself that she feels the need to even prove it. “A friend to who I can talk about Christopher and mine news to my heart’s content!”

“She hitting on you?”

Lorna turns to her sister, stifling an absurd little laugh. “You’re being ridiculous, ya know that, right? Y’ know my heart beats only for Christopher!” She feels defensive and transparent and she hates all of it.

“You must bring her for dinner some time,” Franny says as the microwave beeps, and her voice is soft. It means _bring her to the ultimate test._ It also means _I don’t know what’s going on in your curly little head, as I often don’t know things, but I’m willing to get familiar, and then try some more._

Because that’s who Franny is. She’s good, does her best to be. She doesn’t always know what good means, doesn’t always accept what you show her, but deep inside, she’s willing to try.

“Hey, where’s your beautiful jacket gone?”

“It was faulty,” Lorna answers fast enough with an intense yawn. “Took it back to the shop.”

She walks up to her room, macaroni in hands, stumbling on toys and waking kids. She sits cross-legged on the bed of her childhood fairytales, weariness starting to take over her body while she feels her system with food. Her hands fiddle with the small nothings on her bedside, tickets and posters, laundry and post receipts, a calendar and a piece of ribbon. Franny calls them trash, Lorna calls them memories, dark alleys and music she doesn’t quite understand, and she sleeps clutching on them.

.

“Let me think… what about uh, no fucking way?”

“Come on, Nicky!” Soso widens her eyes pleadingly, “you’re the only hope we have left. We were banned from the community center after Flaca fought with Maritza and broke a table!”

Nicky raises her glance from the tattoo gun she’s been repairing, to stare at Flaca in amusement, briefly wondering how the fuck she could stand through that eyeliner tattoo being done without dying of fucking pain. “Why’d you two fight anyway?”

“She got angry we were protesting against the pizza!”

“To be honest you should both be angry you’re protesting against _Mendoza_ 's pizza.”

“It ain’t my fault,” Flaca shrugs her shoulders. “I’m just in it for the soft grunge!”

“Flaca! The working conditions at Cesar’s are unacceptable and inhumane!” Soso turns to look at her comrade scandalized and Nicky turns to look at the young Japanese-Scottish girl.

“Listen love, this isn’t happening. Red doesn’t want trouble at her shop, a collective Russian coffee shop’s already enough to raise suspicion in those dark times we live in, you feel me?”

“We just want the café to become the meeting place for our activist group! We have a cause that you’ve misinterpreted, and we need a place to organize our action!”

“Yeah about that, what cause exactly are we talking about?”

Four different voices are raised. “Education!” “Cultural appropriation!” “Green feminism!” and “Weed!”

All eyes turn to Tricia. Nicky doesn’t echo Alex’s amused chuckle.

“Yo, for medical reasons and shit!” the kid with the neck tattoo shrugs.

“Better not let Red hear you say that, girl. Or have her bail you out after a protest turns riot again, for that matter.”

“Come on, Nicky! We need your help! We’re trying to change the world here, isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

“That so, and how you gonna do that?”

Mercy’s face lights up as she throws an arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders. “By demanding queer representation in the media!”

“Listen, even then the actresses will all be straight and fuck you up, vagception wise. I’m telling you girls, this is a lost war you’re fighting. You gotta stick it to the man, I’m all for that, but not in Red’s coffee shop, not with Yuri and Vassili and Sparkle Tits around. I’ll talk to Red, but if you wanna change the world stay in schoo, do your homework and suck no dicks while you write essays on intersectional feminism, is that clear?”

Soso opens her mouth to protest but shuts it again and deflates. After they walk out of the tattoo parlor, Alex who had been watching from the door all along, fairly amused, lifts a curvy eyebrow.

“Honestly?” she asks in her hoarse voice. “Stay in school, kids? Revolution, but civilization? That’s rich coming from you!”

“Yeah well, you know, give the advice you’ll never follow, ancient proverb. ‘Sides, who needs college when you’ve got rehab centers and their mechanics reintegration classes?” She asks bitterly, waving her screwdriver in the air. “See? Your machine’s ready, ma’ame. Is there anything else you want me to tinker?”

Alex smirks meaningfully. “I’ll avoid answering that question. Actually I won’t. There’s something you can fix, and it’s revolutionary related. Talk to Red.”

“What?”

“Talk. To Red. Turn her place into the Café Musain, for all I care. We’re overthrowing the government, and lezzifying the media.”

“What. The fuck. Are you talking about.”

“This is my chance, Nicky,” Alex widens her eyes behind her glasses. “Remember how we were looking for a chance to introduce me to your hot blond friend? Here we have it, served in a golden plate! Or should I say, venti papercup? Bitches _love_ social activism and lattes!”

“I don’t think I see where you’re getting at.”

“Say yes to the kids.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a fucking coup d’état!”

“Now wait a sec, are you asking me to host a preschool feminist activist meeting in Red’s café, with Soso as fucking Liberty leading the fucking people, so that you can shove your fake Theroigne de Mericourt Piroshky dick into Chapman?”

“What!” Alex nibbles thoughtfully on a pen, unable to hide a wide beam. “Liberty was topless, so here’s your end of the deal. Plus, you get to smash the patriarchy! Kids were right, this is indeed everything we’ve wanted!”

“I don’t know man, it’s not that I haven’t had my fair share of Soso’s naively well meaning opinions and fancy words in the past, it’s just that she talks so fucking much!”

“Yeah I know, she’s quite a handful.”

“Or should you say a mouthful... So wait a minute,” Nicky raises her palms in the air, “you an activist pimp now? Is that how you get your pussy?”

Alex bats her eyelashes innocently, lowering her glasses with two fingers. “I’m just _stating_ that you can help the girls with their noble cause, and me with mine!”

“France before pants, Vause.”

“I just _feel_ that she’ll be the type to attend a feminist meeting taking place in her neighborhood. I mean, you know her better of course, but I fucking feel it, Nicky!”

“Yeah I know about those feels,” Nicky scowls. “I don’t see why you’re so pumped up with this matchmaking business though. Chapman’s cool and all, but she fucks piefucker Larry, sells fancy soaps with my mum’s One True Daughter, and calls her fucking dog Granola! I mean I love her, but she’s a Mediocre Cinammon Roll, just Right for this World, just Edible!”

“Fuck Nichols,” Alex squirms in horror, “what kind of a friend are you?”

Nicky puts her tools in her bag, heaving a sigh. “The pussy liking kind. And that one? She’s a dog person, dude!”

“I’m a dog person too,” Alex browses through the watercolor book with a dreamy smile she can’t quite get rid of.

“Hey, watch your sap, okay? It’ll start dripping all over my tools and y’know how territorial I get!”

“Of course. Should we talk about your Lorna _Ya don’t look like a lesbian_ problematic fave Morello instead?”

“Suck my tit,” Nicky smirks, no hint of spite in her voice.

“With pleasure!”

“We got a cycling date, actually.”

“As in, you’ll let her ride you?”

“As in, I’ll teach her how to ride, Vause, the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Sounds promising,” Alex winks, moving behind the chair and starting to gather her things, cleaning the desk up for Stella’s shift. Nicky gestures at Stella’s side, all the books full of ironic biker tattoos. “Hey, you fuck her yet?”

“No I did not _fuck her._ She’s my coworker and of ambiguous moral background.”

“In your spare time you’re a _drug mule_ , Vause!” Nicky loud-whispers, fairly amused. “You and I have different definitions of morality!”

“God that was tacky!”

“Hey, now that you mentioned tacky, have I told you what I think of Chris-tuh-fuh?”

“What do you think of him?” Alex smiles, and only does so to give her a rantaway again.

“That he’s like Red’s chicken!”

“Russian?”

“An urban legend! He doesn’t fucking exist!”

Alex shudders. “Yeah, no big news.”

Nicky fiddles with her tool belt a little, then raises her eyes. “I must go now, or I’ll pass out and wake up with Carlin’s face tattooed on my ass.”

“Sure, thanks for fixing that. And Nicky?” she calls. “Please talk to Mommy and Blondie. Do it for the revolution!”

Nicky rests back, placing her thumbs on her tool belt and sticking it out. “The shit I do for a Motherland that hates my fucking guts!”

Vause’s husky chuckle is totally worth it.


	3. Bisexual Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do ya think you’re doing?” Lorna pulls the brakes so abruptly the bike almost flies up with her on it. “Is that why you did this? To put your hands on my ass?”
> 
> “The hell, man? You fucking kidding me?” she croaks. 
> 
> “That’s fucked up, Nicky,” she fervently shakes her head as if she’s trying to get rid of some bug that buzzes in her ears, “you’re fucked up. You know this ain’t about me in first place, and I don’t know what impression I given you, but you gotta at least respect Christopher, a man you barely even know to steal his girl…”
> 
> “That’s fucking classic coming from you, d’you know why? Because it’s fucking true. I don’t know Christopher, and I never will, because there’s no fucking Chris-tuh-fuh to know in first place, yeah?” The brunette has gotten up, holding the bicycle in place, eyes glowing with fervent denial. “Everyone and their mothers know that he doesn’t give a flying fuck about you, or your wedding flowers, or the tulle of your hypocritical chastity veil…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I'm horribly late but to my defence here's an enormously sized chapter, complete with my debut in the miraculous(ly problematic) world of the wonder that is called Vauseman, a social justice meeting where I do my first attempt to write many characters I hadn't before, and... BEHOLD, IT'S THE SEX. Which makes me awfully embarrassed and I can do nothing to correct it but rely on your honesty and kindness and pleasedonthatemeiwillbesad.
> 
> So, I'm REALLY SORRY about all the problematic shit people say in this chapter, these characters are HEAVILY FLAWED in the series so I tried to write them that way, but I'm ridiculously flawed myself and probably under-educated in many issues. Things like those Maritza, Morello, Piper and Nicky say (especially the horrible rape joke that I think is something Nicky would say because she says fucked up things and I do not approve of that in any way) under no circumstances represent my opinions, and I'm sorry about my pathetic attempt to make them a social justice group, but all I know how to do is Les Mis modern AUs so I tried to combine this kind of thing with my girls attempting to make a change. More characters are about to come, but only if I am assured that I didn't fuck these completely up, so I'm practically begging you for opinions and constructive criticism, and always, ALWAYS calling me out on shit I may do out of ignorance! (I'm so glad to introduce Suzanne <3 She's one of my faves and I really can't wait to write more of her, possibly about her friendship with Lorna, and do her justice!)
> 
> Also yeah. Warning: badly written lesbian smut. Poetically inclined. Pretentiously inclined. Idfk. Just spare with me. There's a heatwave here. I'm dizzy all day long. Idk what I'm doing anymore.
> 
> Note: First and last sentence of flashbacks always aligned in the center.

If Foucault wanted some weird power dynamics to write about, then he should probably have come to the alley next to Red’s coffee shop, and watch Nicky teach Lorna how to cycle, because it feels that way, and it’s quite fucked up.

It’s the ridiculousness of teaching someone something when your life had always felt so full of lectures and so fucking empty of advice, when you were told that the cartoons you watched had nothing to show you and the comic books you read were not enough, when you were scolded for knowing everything so you began praising yourself for not knowing shit. Nicky grew up to hate every kind of lesson and ignore every kind of professor and their pathetic little lives. She hated the teacher’s pet and struggled to get lower grades than them even though that wasn’t always easy. She mastered the art of detesting everyone who achieved what she secretly wanted, even grew to despise the graduates of the pompous School Of Life. Nicky taught herself how to cycle and the blood for her knees dripping on the cream ponyskin sofa was enough to see the face of her mother go pale in shock, in the shock she often dreamt was accompanied by a band-aid and a kiss.

(It never was.)

She’s gentle, tries to be, even though everything around her, from the creepy flickering 2AM lamplight to the endless rambling about Christopher’s car instructs her otherwise. This was a bad idea from the very beginning, and she already misses her bed even with the thermos full of homemade espresso Morello brought from home. Morello is a cyclist as terrible as Nicky is a driver, and Nicky really wants to help, but she’s getting distracted and gives shit advice and feels so fucking stupid and dry and estranged from the road they’re trying to follow and the heartthrob she’s trying to tame.

Lorna falls on walls and bushes and a car or two, claims that her pelvis is aching and her knee is bleeding, even though her navy tracksuit is thick enough to protect her. Nicky doesn’t know if it’s genuine Juicy Couture or how it could possibly be, but Morello lands with her ass in the air and Nicky has to gulp hard and try hard to remind herself how sad her life in velvet would be. 

Fuck distracted. Fuck sappy. Fuck late night thoughts and red lips and firefly eyes, and the way they ask to be caught before she falls. She’s become fuckin allergic to all of it.

“I can’t do this, Nicky,” Lorna groans. “I’m too old for that shit, my bum’s so bruised it looks like it’s outa some 50 shades scene!”

“Your bum’s a classy piece of Impressionist art, don’t sell it short. C’mon kid, get your shit together. Remember what I told you, okay? Stare fucking ahead, Morello. I can see you cheating from your ears.”

Lorna frowns, climbing her bike again. “I’m not _cheating_! It’s just my ponytail that’s giving the wrong impression! ‘Sides it’s practically impossible to get my second foot on the pedal on time, I don’t know how ya do that but it’s definitely not for me!”

Nicky presses her lips together as she throws her arms around Morello, placing her hands on the sides of the seat to hold the bike steady. “I’m gonna hold you now, okay?” she says through the wind, biting her lips as her hair gets in the way. She can’t free herself of Morello’s scent that’s blocking away everything else. Her shampoo smells like oranges and summer and Nicky feels her blood pumping frantically under her skin. “Just try to place both your feet on the pedals and I’ll hold you all the way to the trashcans in the end of the alley. Do you think you can make it?”

“Whas even the _point_?” Lorna whines, straightening her back against Nicky’s chest and placing a foot on the pedal. “There ain’t gonna be anyone to hold me when I ride around town!”

“Listen, can you do as I say?” Nicky grunts, balancing her voice a touch higher. “This is fucking important. The point is to get your feet used to taking over, so stop overthinking everything. I don’t know what will happen when I’m not around, but right now I promise you kid, I’m not letting you fall, as long as you try to keep going. Now put your foot on the pedal and ride this goddamn bike, or else I’m letting you fall on your ass!”

She doesn’t give her enough time to think it through, just holds the bicycle up from the sides and pushes so that Morello will have to keep cycling. And she does. She’s obliged to realize she’s safe and that she’s cycled through it midway and she screams, or maybe it’s the wind howling in Nicky’s ears and it’s weird, it’s intense and it’s fucking _pleasant,_ Nicky’s running on her side, holding her, and for a moment there she forgets, and it’s scary and it’s sweet and it’s kind of like home.

They trip over the odd branch before the end of the line and her jeans get tangled on the wheel. They end up on the ground and Morello’s palm is bleeding. Tears well on her eyes but she’s smiling as she lets Nicky hold her hand and assess the damage.

“Hey, I’ll have ya know if I’m about to bleed to death, a’ight?”

“We can stop if you want to, though I’m letting you know it’s gonna be a pussy move,” Nicky chuckles softly, and doesn’t notice that her thumb is stroking Morello’s wrist like it’s made of porcelain and feathers, until both their eyes falter down to it.

“Let’s do this, Nichols,” Lorna answers, and it’s raw.

She doesn’t know what she does wrong, or at which points she starts doing anything differently in first place. She knows that it feels right to her, and she knows that she became colorblind to changes the moment when her body became a grenade constantly prepared to explode while she spent time with or without her, imagining she had her in her arms whenever she held some other lithe, warm figure, whenever she lied down on her stomach with a hand slid between her thighs.

“What do ya think you’re doing?” Lorna pulls the brakes so abruptly the bike almost flies up with her on it. “Is that why you did this? To put your hands on my ass?”

“The hell, man?” Her mouth feels bitter, basic. She’s hot, burning up, all of her, hair all over the place, sweat crippling its way under her flannel, the only cold thing is the taste biling up her throat. “You fucking kidding me?” she croaks.

Morello looks upset as she stumbles away and straightens herself up, throwing her hands in the air. “Let me tell you this, it felt quite sketchy from the very beginning but now you’re touching my ass…”

“Oh yeah you fucking Miss Marple with the fake Juicy unveiled the ugly truth? Whatever shall I do!” Nicky hears herself shouting. “Fucking majestic, huh? It was all a masterplan to fucking feel you up! Maybe I tried to rape you too, but who knows? Lesbian sex is not real anyway, so you wouldn’t really feel it to tell!”

Morello’s eyes have opened widely in horror. “That’s fucked up, Nicky,” she fervently shakes her head as if she’s trying to get rid of some bug that buzzes in her ears, “you’re fucked up. You _know_ this ain’t about me in first place, and I don’t know what impression I given you, but you gotta at least respect Christopher, a man you barely even know to steal his girl…”

“That’s… classic,” Nicky turns around, an almost hysterical grin on her face, her hands shaking, fiddling for something they can’t quite touch, something to cling on, something to stick in her mouth and puke it all out, all over Morello and her disgusting little defensiveness. “That’s fucking classic coming from you, d’you know why? Because it’s fucking _true._ I don’t know Christopher, and I never will, because there’s no fucking Chris-tuh-fuh to know in first place, yeah?” The brunette has gotten up, holding the bicycle in place, eyes glowing with fervent denial. “Everyone and their mothers know that he doesn’t give a flying fuck about you, or your wedding flowers, or the tulle of your hypocritical chastity veil…”

“You –” Lorna’s voice falters, her chin trembling violently. “You’re a lying, selfish person. Stay _the_ _fuck_ away from me.”

“Course I will,” Nicky swifts around to face her, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, grabbing her backpack and kicking the floor with the tip of her boot. “You’re a harmless little girl Snow White Morello, or at least that’s what you want people to think, but d’you know that I say? I say you got that homophobic Catholic guilt of yours, hypocritical like the dwarves’ seven dicks, so far shoved up your ass that it tickles your throat and makes you say all kinds of fucked up shit.”

“Stop pursuing me Nichols, yeah?” Tears are already streaming down her cheeks as she turns her head around, starting to roll the bicycle away, sobs audible until she disappears into the dim lamplight.

“Hey, fucking straight girls, man!” Nicky shouts through the night, shaking all over, craving oblivion, craving that someone’s there to hear her. “So self-entitled they think you’ll turn yourself into a fucking swan in the lake of desperation and go all Zeus down on them!”

She falls back against the brick wall, begging for a cigarette, begging for the fumes in her mouth. Some cats meow aggressively behind the garbage cans. Her chest feels dull.

Fucking straight girls.

.

She remembers her coming while she was trying to shut the other one away. She remembers feeling so horribly alone in Christmas, and asking for her touch before she had even felt it.

 

She was in the coffee shop in the 23rd of December, somewhere around midnight, begging Norma for the fourth espresso that would nevertheless make her vomit and eliminate that constant crippling feeling of nausea that didn’t make her stronger, but could sure as fuck kill her. Norma had strict orders to keep her hydrated if she came crawling to the coffee shop instead of Red’s place as Red had instructed her and no one fucks with a Russian Weasley matriarch in the middle of the night, but it would be a lie to say that Nicky didn’t have her way of manipulating people around and persuading them to do her thing. Addicts do, most of the time, and Nicky had to replace one addiction with another, and quickly. So, caffeine was her poison, and that was all that Red could offer, either knowingly or unknowingly, aside from, you know, saving lives, from handknitted sweaters and steady hands braiding her hair to help with her profuse sweating and chills. If she couldn’t have something to mellow things away and slow her racing heart down, except from maybe the thing that almost stopped it, she could at least try for the thing that would make it pick up and make her shake and vibrate and itch so much, she could even mistake it for pounding expectation.

And she had that, she still did, even when everything was supposed to feel dead. There were breaks of being pumped up and _wanting_ things, bizarre, undefined things she remembered once having and banging and tasting, maybe she was waiting for the Christmas she made up in her mind when she was eight, complete with her mother actually _handing_ her irl the porcelain doll instead of mailing it from Paris, with them baking together with faceless friends, wearing tacky sweaters and wake up on Christmas morning to open presents and watch Disney Channel cuddled up in their pyjamas. Maybe she was waiting for that, or for Santa Claus to get off his beer belly and make a hot girl to walk through the door so that she could distract herself till morning and feel human again and stop itching so much and feeling so alone.

Addictions were always her thing, and she should have seen a new one when Morello walked in the coffee shop in 00:16, bringing a shitload of wind and snow inside, melting off of her red coat, and fogging on her fake professional glasses, all dreamy smiles and late childhoods and festive earrings, like a fucking Coldplay song, the kind of person you want to kiss on New Year’s Eve just to take a glimpse of how full of light and summer sea things must be in their heads, but also the sort of person you want to fuck hard against the counter in full Santa Baby red velvet and fur lingerie attire or in nothing at all.  

At that moment though, she doesn’t want anything to do with her, and she doesn’t want anything to do with tacky commercial celebrations of Christian supremacy, or with this stupid coffee shop, or with Norma’s pitiful looks and whatever the fuck is going on in her mind. She’s resting behind the counter instead, trying to hide herself for a change, gnawing on her nails and her hair and her skin and everything that feels like it’ll never feel right again. She lets Norma greet the customer and offer her meaningful smile together with the special Christmas menu with toffee and chestnuts and peppermint everywhere. Only surprise motherfucker, the girl in the red coat and the redder snowflake sweater is not, in fact, a customer.

“Well hello there,” she smiles at Norma and her fluffy reindeer antlers, waving her hand and taking off her coat. “What horrible, horrible weather that is! My mama always used to say, cold hands in Christmas mean warm lips on New Year’s and ungh, she was kinda right, y’know, I mean like the hardest winter I remembah, _and_ Ernie Lorenzo kissed me in the laundromat at the end of the year, so bingo!” she giggles, and it echoes like a headache that’s come to stay. “Sorry,” she retreats somewhat uncertainly when all she receives is Norma’s silent, sympathetic grin. “I talk a lot, I’m kinda nervous, I know first impressions are important!”

“Pardon me if I’m outa bounds here kid, but the fact that you gotta make a good first impression to order some fancy Christmas cappuccino with a candy cane shoved up its ass is quite beyond me.” Nicky slightly peeks out of her hiding place, just because everything sounds surreal in the state that her head’s in, and that simply makes her curious. Curious about the way she’s receiving things and reacting to them, curious about whether she wants the girl either to shut up or to fucking explain.

“Oh no, that’s not the case, actually,” her smile widens, use of words as intentional and rehearsed as the fake glasses she’s wearing to look professional (because you need to call her kid in order to avoid coming to terms with the fact that she’s thirty something, hot, and apparently straight). “I’m looking for a job, I saw you were hiring…”

“Yeah, you see _Norma_ here is planning to abandon us,” Nicky snorts quite dazedly at human Rudolph, who shrugs and returns to the espresso machine, avoiding her gaze, “for Mendoza’s School of Witchcraft and Pepperoni across the street. She doesn’t even know how to make a freaking _pizza,_ man!”

The woman in the red coat looks way too confident, considering her cluelessness about what they are discussing. Thankfully she takes off the glasses she obviously can’t see with, and looks in her navy patent purse. “Here,” she turns to Norma and receives no reply. “I don’t know about pizza, my father always used to say I was the Italians’ shame, but I swear to God I can shake the best cappuccino milk in tha neighborhood!”

Something stirs in Nicky. A hint of a smirk that had long ago started feeling like a grimace of pain. An urge to touch, to hold, human contact other than adoptive maternal hands holding back her hair while she vomited, or faceless thighs clutching on her neck. She can’t see straight (fuckin ironic), she’s forgotten how it felt to have a head that didn’t spin like a fucking roller coaster of emotions and blur and waterproof. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Morello.” She walks over to offer her hand. Nicky’s skin itches, she can hardly control it anymore. It’ll never stop feeling like a badly fitting bra, or like too tight socks cutting circulation, begging to be taken off, Nicky knows that. She has long ago stopped imagining the relief. “Lorna Morello.” Nicky shakes her hand, soft and cold and maybe, just maybe, it won’t feel the sickness, it won’t notice she has a fever. “But I hate Lorna. It makes me feel like my Nana Morello. Rumor has it she tried to strangle her first husband with vacuum cleaner bags, y’know!”

“Hey, Nymphadora Morello,” Nicky feels an amused grin cracking on her face, after days and days her muscles forgot how to work. “Spare me the Black family tree mafia details, huh? Just, tell me, do you usually hand around CVs in midnight?” She’s imagining things, her failure of a head is, the dull pain in her ribs, the dryness in her throat, everything’s taking part in the blur. Teeth and tongues and doing something with your fingers, wrapping your thighs around a neck, suffocating yourself, darkness and burning up against another person. Was her voice that hoarse when she was fifteen? Does Lorna Morello know how to get rid of the hallucinations of her lips, with her lips?

She shrugs her shoulders instead, tugging her red coat around her, snow always melted on her 40s curls and cotton epaulettes. “Handing them around in the morning didn’t do me any good so far though…” Nicky’s dizzy. Nicky wants to sit. Nicky wants to run a marathon, to climb on her, to climb a mountain then sleep again, to hold Red, to hold her knees, to be warm and safe and wet, caffeinated, _hydrated._ “I really need this job,” she stares at her with huge doe eyes. “My fiancé’s wage ain’t enough for us to open a household. He’s a DJ, y’know!” Nicky doesn’t notice, she doesn’t know why she’s sinking, maybe it’s the snow, maybe it’s a swamp someplace else, someplace in the desert, in her mother’s loft. Maybe it’s her mother’s Hermes scarf, or that actress in that 80s movie that filled her with chills and turned out to be straight after all. Maybe it’s Lorna Morello’s snowflake sweater, knitted tightly around her neck, keeping her dry, _always so fucking dry._ “Will you speak to the administration?”

“I’ll speak to Red,” Nicky says hoarsely.

"Thank you so much!" Morello's face lights up like a fuckin Christmas tree even though she hasn’t the faintest of who Red might be. 

"Yeah, whatever. Give that to me, I'll see what I can do." She raises an amused eyebrow.

"I'm Nicky, if you need me. Not that you asked."

"Oh right, of course! Silly me, I don’t know what I’m doing, Christ! Your hair looks... interesting, by the way! Would look great pulled up on a chi-gnee-on! Maybe I could help you tie it up on New Year's!"

See, that's why she always wished with all her fucking bad heart that she could hate Christmas, that's why she should have tried harder during her rebellious anti-capitalist Upper East Side teenager with a shitload of money to buy illegal drugs kind of phase.

"Hey kid," Morello stops at the door, turns around to face a smile that makes Nicky's cheeks ache, a weird sort of pain that makes her feel fucking privileged. "Next time you look for a job, better not use the tactic where you go around telling people that you think their hair is like the mop that inspired some Shakespeare nerd to write the fucking Lion King!"

It's that naïve part of hers that should have died long ago, but instead it kept dreaming of crackling fireplaces, and eating each other together with hot chocolate, and all things non-existent.

"I do like your hair, Nicky. Why would I lie?"

About that part. Little did she know.

.

 

“If you listened to me, just for once, then maybe this place wouldn’t be in such deep shit as it is now!”

“Oh but of course! How did I not think of that earlier! I’m certain that hiring a caricature of an Arthur Miller character will immediately breathe life into the café that I’ve brought up with my bare hands in less than the blink of an eye!”

“This place needs some fresh blood, huh Red? Plus you were hiring already! You found a person willing to do the night shift _and_ is fucking Italian, man! Like, imagine the espresso she’s gonna make!”

“The espresso is to be made by the espresso machine, I can assure you it requires no more skill than it does to trim your nose hair!”

“Yet Gina still does yours.” She receives a deathly stare from Red and raises her palms.

“Hey, alright. I get it. You want to be sure. But why not give her a chance?”

“Because I have sensed that she doesn’t always tell the truth. Seems like a sweet girl, don’t get me wrong. But a girl with fake glasses, nonetheless.”

“What can you do uh? It’s not her fault with Cosmo’s dress to impress advice, and all the shit they give girls these days to read. She’s been trying so hard to make a good impression, I mean look at her, she’s come at least twice this week and brought us pie!”

“Mediocre lemon pie,” Red scrunches up her nose and throws Nicky a towel.

“She needs this job, Red.”

“And I quote, to open a household with her _fiancé_ ,” Red’s throw her a knowing glance with the corner of her spiked eye. “Help me with those glasses.”

Nicky starts wiping the remaining glasses with the towel, but her mind is elsewhere.

“I don’t doubt that she’s good, Nicky. But this coffee shop is our home. Home is inhabited by family. You can’t introduce whoever into family, especially not people who are not entirely honest. What if she doesn’t bother to give the proper order to a lactose intolerant? We’re already in trouble with Caputo, we don’t want the health department to mess in our hair!”

“You know there’s no need to worry ‘bout that, Healey would cover up for you. You know he’d literally sweep your floors if you asked him.” Nicky raises her eyes from the glasses, performing the wide-eyed look she had no one to practice on while growing up. “C’mon ‘ma,” she mutters hoarsely. “It’s Christmas.”

Red gives her the look that knows what bullshit tastes like. “So instead of a hand-knit sweater and Pryanikis, I give you straight Italian Agent Carter to fuck in my shop. Also don’t think I have forgotten that Christmas is some _big ol’ consumerist trick of medieval witch-burning high on opium hypocrites that forshadowed the need to play tacky tunes in all different languages minimizing other cultures and religions while they praise a creepy Coca-Cola pedophile abusing endangered animals while feeding people’s pathological nostalgia, wrapping it in bullshit about spirit and toxic families and shoving it down their children’s throats?_ ”

“What can I say? People change, opinions change, uh? It’s the effect family will have on you.” Nicky shrugs. “You gotta love a mother with a vague ambition in pop culture. I mean, the Agent Carter part, you got that right! Do you know she was bi? Hey Red, I promise I won’t bang her on the counter. The dishwasher though, these vibrations are an entirely different story…”

She receives a smack on the back of her head yet has to try for the smile she cracks to be smug. Red knows she’s doomed before Nicky will even allow the realization to be verbalized in her head.

“Just consider yourself informed daughter dear, that I won’t be the one to pat-pat your sorry ass when you fall on it and have your confidence broken on the remnants of some artichoke of a dude’s dick.”

Yeah thanks ‘ma, and _ho bloody ho_.

.

“The last time I listened to you should have taught me something!” Red hisses, as the little coffee shop starts getting crowded with women Nicky herself has never seen before (which, to be honest, does not fail to pump her up a good deal). “But people are stupid, they never learn. I have enough in my mind already without having to babysit a bunch of raging thirty somethings taking a break from Yoga - including Jones herself – to talk about other people’s privileges and ignore the ones the groups they come from already have. We’re going to get in trouble here!”

“I don’t even recognize you!” Nicky says in a hushed, surprised voice. “You never cared about not getting into trouble, especially if fundamental human rights were in stake! By letting those chicks meet in your café, you’re helping them make change in this fucked up place, and stir the passion of the community!”

“So did they manage to stir _your_ passion?” Red lifts an eyebrow, tying her apron behind her neck. Nicky knits her own.

“Yeah, that’s funny. Listen, unlike Boo, I’m not a lover, I’m a pessimist!” She sighs, looking around in a hurry, at all the women supposed to squeeze this meeting in their lunchbreaks. “Just be thankful for all the customers I’ve brought you,” she hisses, turning around in order to walk away, but being met instead with Taystee’s eyes a couple of inches away from her own.

“You better got something in mind,” she says in a hushed yet rather intimidating tone. “For many a’these girls, this is an opportunity to be heard, so don’t make this a joke, and don’t fuck this up. We clear, Iron Man?”

“What _ever_ –”

“There better be something coming out of this shit, and for that to happen, you gotta at least pretend you believe in it.”

Before Taystee’s lecture is over, Nicky finds herself surrounded by the kiddie student girltrash gang of the neighborhood, Soso being their democratically elected representative. She doesn’t even have the time to realize what is going on, and Soso throws her arms around her, swinging her round in a tight hug. “Thank you Nicky, I knew you wouldn’t let us down! We never would have made it without you!”

“Yeah, great story kid,” Nicky pats Soso’s back awkwardly. “You got my blessing to overthrow the state.”

“I’ve thought of starting the discussion with some thoughts regarding the commercialization of citizenship and the normalization of the condonation of capitalism in a white supremacist patriarchal environment…”

All the while Gina has been taking ridiculous orders from the ladies all around and Morello has been serving. Flaca is already climbed up on a chair, much to Red’s (underlined) dismay.

“Ladies, we’re all gathered here today to talk about social justice issues and shit, and we’re all here to take our fates in our hands and make a _change,_ so if a bitch don’t wanna do no shit, better suck it like _yesterday_.”

The audience is cheering and hooting in a frenzy. Soso already looks quite exasperated with the prospect of someone else being in charge and fucking her dream up big time. Janae and Cindy both look unimpressed, as for Chapman and Daya, Mercy’s classmate in art school, they both look like they’re here for a reason and are determined to not let this meeting go to waste.

“So what exactly are we discussing?” Janae asks, nursing her mug of tea and leaning back against the wall.

“Wage gap would be a good start?” Yoga Jones suggests, searching for approval in her friend’s gaze. Instead she’s met with a snort.

“White girl problem.”

There’s uproar in the group, opinions colliding and not really making sense as they are phrased all together.

“Bitches forget we got an _employment_ issue!” Cindy lifts her eyebrows, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Mickey Mouse got a point, you just gotta read the statistics!” everyone notices Maritza’s presence, which was quite expected considering the likelihood of making up with Flaca.

“Ain’t nobody gonna take us in if we go apply in dreads, which ain’t a problem for white hippie indie queen!” Taystee states, matter-of-factly.

“Citizen Taystee is right, cultural appropriation is an important issue we must address,” Soso speaks up, but the environment is too loud for her to be heard.

“Then why don’t we address the Mexican sombrero Halloween costumes, and the one-dimensional way Latinas are represented?” Daya offers helpfully.

“I know right? Like, I could look like Blondie here, or Sailor Whiteface girl, or Shakira, and yet not have my true identity validated,” Maritza pursues her lips, placing her hands on her hips to accentuate her point. It’s probably the wrong thing to say, because Morello looks furious.

“Go ahead and say that _without_ stealing _American_ culture yourselves!” She points at Janae, almost spilling a Turkish coffee down, pointing at Janae and her straightened hair. “Don’t you dare call me whiteface again cause I’m fucking _Mediterranean_!”

Janae, Daya and Cindy, all throw themselves up, looking particularly pissed by that addition to the conversation, and Vause, who had stayed silent till that point, extends her – rather impressing – height over them, as well as a perfectly angled eyebrow, clearly surprised by her blatant racism. “Well fuck Lorna, why don’t you let people who know their issues talk about them on their own, while we keep our pasty asses out of it?”

“Xena here’s got a point,” Poussey nods in agreement, pointing at Alex. Morello herself looks shocked at her friend’s intervention. “Your feminism must be intersectional, or it’ll be bull- _shit_.”

“No you know what?” Janae steps forward, looking even more pissed than before. “This whole thing _is_ bullshit. Fuck, what’s even the point? What are we gonna _do here_?”

“BUILD A BARRICADE!” Suzanne, who had as well kept quiet to that point, bursts on a chair before they’re able to do anything about it, eyes wide open in determination.

“We’re gonna talk,” all eyes turn to Chapman, something that Nicky pretty much expected but everyone else clearly didn’t. “Then we’re gonna talk some more. We’re going to start by educating ourselves,” her eyes stop on Morello and Janae, who’s about to kick the shit out of some people, “and we’ll try to educate others. We’ll raise awareness about diverse issues in our community, we’ll draw, we’ll write, we’ll sing,” Daya, Suzanne and Pouseey look up, “we’ll sew and start events and do whatever all of us can do. We have the opportunity to do something here, something for ourselves, for our rights, and we’re going to make the most of it.”

“Go big or go home Chap,” Nicky smirks, winking at Piper, while Suzanne starts singing the Marseillaise. Piper’s eyes meet Alex’s over the table, and she smiles timidly. Nicky wants to puke gay rainbows.

“Great speech, Vanilla Cheesecake,” Cindy says sarcastically but without spite.

“Yes great speech sweetcheeks, you’ll get your golden sticker after lunch,” everyone turns to look at Red, standing in the middle of the coffee shop, hands holding a big spoon over her hips, a red badge on her apron. “What I say is that you sit on your sorry asses and study,” she points at the students, “while you all actually do something. Philosophers and sociologists and their big fancy words don’t tell me shit. What a real activist will do is make a soup for the homeless kitchen, go help at the animal shelter, march a bit, feel the blood boiling in your comfy veins, and if you don’t all start by caring for the black women and kids shot by the cops, the name of whom we’ll never learn, then I don’t know what kind of rotten horseshit your feminism is about!”

“What Mama Lenin said,” Poussey nods, quite satisfied. Soso, on the other hand, seems stuck already at the homeless kitchen part.

“We must treat our fellow citizens with compassion, not with charity.”

“Speaking over our voices for our own problems stopped being fancy in the fuckin 70s.”

“The 1870s.”

“Then what’s the place of the allies in a movement?”

“Stealing the A from the Aces, the Aros and the Agenders, Boo,” Taystee replies to Piper.

“We can always address the pressing issue of how Betty Boop here hasn’t sucked no dick since 2012,” Maritza coos at Morello, whose hands start shaking furiously.

“Yeah, we were in the alley last weekend, saw your hubbie-to-be with that East Hampton baseball chick. I don’t know about you, but he seemed pretty content while she sucked his face!”

Nicky stands up in alarm. The Marseillaise intensifies.

“Better sucking no faces than sucking every med student’s while you got a kid!” Morello growls to Maritza, looking positively terrifying.

“This is a feminist safe place!” Soso gasps, appalled. “Slut shaming is not allowed in here, I expected better from you, citizen Lorna!”

Morello throws the disk with the coffees on the floor and bursts into the kitchen, sobbing loudly.

“What about trans rights?” Soso attempts to continue as if nothing happened, but Nicky doesn’t let her finish her sentence.

“Hey, good point kid, but who the fuck do you think you are exactly? We’re talking about not covering the other’s voices here, do you think you can address such issues with zero trans representation? Look around ya, bring Sophia from the salon, shut the fuck up and listen to her own experiences, huh?” And with that she stands up, and follows Morello to the kitchen.

“This must be a _safeplace_ ,” Suzanne stops singing and explains slowly, as if to 5 year olds, taking everyone by surprise. “We must be polite to each other, or else,” she stomps her foot, causing Piper to jump up on her seat, “BOOM goes unity!”

“We need a name, yo!” Poussey stands up and waves her arms, setting the pace. “We need an agenda!”

Taystee follows suit, doing a little dance. “Burn Republicans at the stake!”

“Boil the straights like mac ‘n’ cheese!”

“I’m offended by this!”

“Are we ever going to address bi erasure?”

“This ain’t the fuckin pride!”

“Yass it is, BITCH!”

“Ladies, we march!”

Everybody cheers, and Red sighs deeply, starting to hand around revolutionary drinks.

.

She walks into the kitchen and shuts the door behind her, as if locking the others out will block everyone else away from the crying girl's head. She bends next to her, knees cracking, promises cracking, wishing she could stay away.

"They're liars, all of 'em."

"Course they are."

"They don't know nothing about my relationship, they simply saying all that to make me feel _bad_ ," she gasps for air between her tears. "Christopher and I had a fight."

"Well, I'm sorry 'bout that, kid," she murmurs, realizing with a strange comfort that she really kind of is.

"Told me 'e doesn't see me enough anymore." She looks away, making a failed attempt to wipe her face with the back of her hand. "That I waste my life serving coffee after midnight..."

"Jesus, but your working schedules are compatible!"

 "They're right, y'know," Lorna sobs curled up in her childish sailor's dress that rides up an stretches insecurely around her thighs. "He's right. I'm no good for Christopher. I'm stuck here doing nothing, not offering enough."

 "Hey, what about you stop saying that kind of shit?" Nicky places a hand on her shoulder, shaking her lightly, forcing her to look up. "You're so good. You’re working hard, you’re nice with people, you always manage to look like a fuckin pinup girl, uh? Sure you still got things to learn, but out there? You're gonna make a difference, you're gonna show your talent, you're gonna show how much you care." Morello stifles a small sob, raising her wet dark eyes at Nicky. "Hey, don't you fuckin listen to them! Fuckin Flaritza, man? Look at their eyeliner, they're like My Immortal!" That earns a small, shaky laugh. "You're worthy kid, and if Chris-tuh-fuh doesn't see that, then he's a fuckin dick."

 She's weaving her story on the remnants of Lorna's own, holding her while she cries, using those tears to console herself, tracing featherweight circles on her back, brushing the hair off her face, hoping her lungs are strong enough to not require suffocating, doing that thing she does to people she fails to love in the right way.

 "I don't know how to get things, how to keep 'em," she says quietly, shaking her head, somewhat lost, mostly to herself. "I need so much, I dunno what to do."

 "Yeah," Nicky says hoarsely, "sometimes people love other people. It sucks." _Sometimes people don't want to. Sometimes people get in the way._

 She's stroking her face absently, like it's normal, like it's her pulse and they owe shit to each other. She wipes the tears away, stroking her hair, her neck, feeling her flinch beneath her touch.

 Morello's hands rest on Nicky's shoulders, thumbs tracing her collarbone, tugging on the flannel of her shirt, moving over the top of her chest. "I'm sorry about the otha’day, I shouldn't 'ave said all that," she sniffles, and it hits home like a distant memory out of a radio that's still searching where to tune itself. "You're so good with me, Nicky."

 "No I'm not," she croaks. "I'm thinking of myself inside of you."

There's a breath or two that go unnoticed, world staying still for a while. It's Morello who initiates the kiss, fingers digging in her skin, lips sliding into her, swallowing her breath, sloppy and salty and pressed tightly on her like she wants to paint a map on her mouth. Her thumbs fiddle with the necklace around her neck, with the soft skin on her nape, plant themselves in her hair and pull her close.

 It's her heart that initiates the blackout. It's numb, a dull thud, underwater like a dazed soldier, gurgling -stop, record this, keep this in your pocket cause it's the only you'll ever have, cause it's not gonna last. No one gives a shit for what wrong hearts say, no one listens to broken machines, to decaf declarations of inconsolable independences. 

 It’s her hands that jump in the race, her skillful, knowing hands, messing with her buttons and the straps of her bra, wandering under her dress, pinching a nipple just for the gasp she’s stolen again and again in her dreams only Morello is real, tasting salty and softer than she’s had in years, hands frantic, wandering all over her. She’s always loved being their first, feeling girls ‘turn’ just for her, and fucked if she sounds like a smug teen for that. With Morello it’s different though, full of clichés and of reinventing them all. She’s breathing her name, or maybe she’s too dizzy to decipher anything else, throws her hands underneath Nicky’s shirt and has her shaking quite pathetically on her knees, considering it’s the brunette’s ‘what do with boobs’ debut. Nicky grabs her small waist and shoves her against the counter, pushing up her knee between the other woman’s legs, eliciting a moan, a saga of them, which she takes for an invitation to dig her teeth in the cord of her neck and to take hold of her creamy thigh, pressing circles into her skin, thumbing her over her knickers, feeling her shuddering wet.

“God oh _God –_ Nicky, what… ah – whatreya _doing_!” Morello shrieks low key, barely remembering to have the conscience to keep it down when, just outside the door, they have an audience of about a dozen.

“Relax, kid,” Nicky breathes huskily, counting each and every one of them, keeping track of the ruggedness of it, of the vibrations and the pounding, before she eases a finger between her folds, rubbing her clit and biting her own lips until she tastes blood. “I’m taking care of you.”

Lorna is coming apart a bit too soon, writhing like a dandelion against the wind, precious and sweet and _so fuckin hot_ for this universe. It feels like it’s lasting for years because Nicky’s knees are giving her away, her heart is tired of hitting hard against the cage of her chest, trying to hammer its way out of it. She holds Lorna as she presses herself against her abdomen, wrapping her legs around her waist and holding their bodies close in a vibe. Only then does she realize she’s been hearing her voice all along (clearly she’s not the only one), desperate and _obscene_ , playing debauchery on the tips of her fingers, on the red nails that she’s digging on the skin of Nicky’s shoulders, blindly rubbing on her aching nipples over the fabric of her tank top.

“Oh Nicky Jesus- _fuck_ …” Lorna is muffling her pants, her mouth planted open and wet against Nicky’s shoulder, bleeding cherry red on her white shirt, some weird sort of intimacy that makes Nicky’s knees wobble desperately, her knickers sleek and dripping, her chest pound with the dire, absurd need to be exclusive, to give all of her and to freeze the clock pressed against Lorna’s sweaty, pulsating body.

She collapses with her weight on her, screaming heat into that stupid name of hers, so loudly that Nicky’s sure that not only the women present at the café but the entire neighborhood knows she’s managed to crawl up into Lorna Morello’s panties. It’s pleasant, warm and shaky, and Nicky wants that, she wants her, so she holds her as if she contains stars and is fragile and is only ever going to share those breaths with her and her fingers and her tongue, and her forehead pressed against the crook of her neck, inhaling figs and salt and jasmines, summers that are really very early.

“I wanna feel you, Nicky,” she slurs, stumbling off the counter when she catches her breath and pressing Nicky’s weight back against it clumsily, mostly throwing her weight on her without another kiss, rather than skillfully pushing her back to lead the way. “Let me touch ya the way you do.”

Nicky has no words to spare, not this once, not any breaths to save or count or hold. She’s empty of it all, faltering all the way around her, focused on leading her in while she opens up to her, on losing all she had ever gained by playing it tough, by scraping her elbows on people’s promises, by swallowing the dirt from the bottom of her palms and spitting the blood on their useless touches. This time is the last time and it is the first, because what else can kill you but death, what else can make you stronger but punching yourself in the face with her face?

So she lets the girl in the damp sailor’s dress figure her way into fucking her hard because that’s what friends do, helping each other out, pushing each other in, and she wonders what she tastes like, if she tastes to Lorna like she does to herself, like the disgusting bile claiming her throat, like the blood pounding in her veins, but she’s still tasting Lorna instead even though they’re not kissing anymore, and she gets drunk and shows her a million ways to fuck her up, to fuck her clean, and she sees galaxies, they’re colored a bit like milkshakes and violets and, on the tips of your fingers, they kinda feel like home.

.

She smells like roses. It’s a heavy scent, classic in a sense, yet at the same time Piper feels like it’s the first time she encounters it. She smells like an adventure draped in comfortable sheets, like a statue draped in sunlit banners. She smells like coming home, or like never wanting to return there again.

At first she thinks that it’s all in her head because this woman, this woman there should not be allowed to exist, and Piper is pretty sure that non-existent people have no interest in girls like her. It’s not that she’s ever set her stakes low, it’s that she can’t remember ever seeing a more intimidatingly beautiful, or beautifully intimidating person in her life than the bespectacled Amazon with the rockabilly tattoos. Something about her makes Piper wonder if she’s even programmed to smile, but when she does, something tickles her from the inside and it’s perfect, like one of those places you know you’ve been before. Her eyes are pale yet they’re piercing through her and her lips look soft enough to make her uncomfortable. Not to mention that her eyebrow game is stronger than gravity, and that Nicky probably had a reason to allude to the sun when she referred to her bosom.

What’s worst of all, she’s been staring. She’s making it real before it even begins to feel that way and that’s a sneaky move, and it makes Piper’s heart catch on her throat beyond her greatest measure. She’s been staring and smiling and winking, without even allowing Piper to look away, to stop her lips from twitching and her stomach from twisting.

Then again there is this other thing, that Piper has a steady boyfriend whom she loves, that the point is that bisexuals are _not_ confused, but right now she’s feeling even more confused than the time she was punished for her father’s cheating on her mother, and she wants to bang her head against the wall. Larry is waiting at home while she’s lusting over some random chick who draws on people’s skin (and does god knows what else) for a living, and maybe this is not what she needs at all, and maybe this is _exactly_ what she needs. Maybe excitement is meant to leap in the pit of her stomach, and not buried comfortably in the box of some wedding dress. Maybe guilt is meant to be experienced, to be inherited and murdered and washed off, but also meant to be worth it.

She watches her walk towards her when the meeting ends, distance swallowed down between them before she has the time to think about it. Her hands look soft and beautiful, and before she knows it they’re resting on her shoulders, and it’s electric. Piper wants it to stop, she wants to put an end to this and forget all about it, but the other woman smiles at her, and she smells of roses and dancing, and it’s inevitable.

“Nicky and Lorna gave quite a show, didn’t they?”

She cringes. “Thank you for reminding me, I’m thinking of ways I can bleach my brain clean without leaving any permanent damage.”

“I liked what you said at the table,” she says hoarsely and Piper is hooked. There are things she can’t decipher, and maybe they’re all in her mind, but she’s missed so much actually having to put an _effort_ to read somebody. “Let’s kick society right in the balls!”

“Why thank you!” she feels herself grinning with undisguisable surprise.  “I actually think that we can make something good out of this!”

Her eyes are wandering somewhere behind Piper, or into her, she doesn’t even know. “You actually made me believe we can. The reason I want to continue this… it’s completely different from the one that brought me into it in the very beginning. I want to thank you for that, Princess.”

“And how do you plan to do that while using royalist titles?” she hears herself asking, half amused, half fascinated.

She smirks mysteriously, arching her eyebrows. “What about letting me buy you a drink for a start? Or coffee?” They both turn to see Nicky smiling with all the power of her sassy cheeks and nodding while Morello giggles and whispers something in her ear, both of them always staring at their direction. The only thing Piper has to imagine them in, is Magenta and Columbia’s full-on corset attire. “I’d rather do someplace else, with fair trade beans or whatever you kid drink these days, if that’s the case.”

“Well, I have to go walk my dog right now,” Piper says it like she’s trying to get away, only in reality she’s hoping for anything but that.

“Want me to join you then? I’ll offer you some protection from the nasty dog fuckboys.”

Piper frowns, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Well I _can_ take care of myself and of my girl, thank you very much!”

“Can you?” she teases.

“Who _are_ you?”

Her expression gets serious, as if introducing herself may be a life changing event, but her grey eyes are still smiling behind her glasses. “I’m Alex.”

“And what do you actually do, Alex? Besides infantilizing women you offer protection to in _feminist_ meetings?”

“I work for an international drug cartel, with its base on the tattoo parlor around the corner.”

Piper wonders if her system is so easily adaptable, if it’s a reflex to show no surprise for what she’s heard, necessary to fit in with women who are goddesses and, apparently, criminals. Her insides jump with she doesn’t know what when they both burst into laughter. “And isn’t it hard, juggling two jobs at once?” she raises an eyebrow.

“It is, it’s called ‘surviving in free market America of the 21st century without a daddy willing to buy you UGGs and college tuition’. You didn’t tell me your name though.”

“Piper.” It sounds like _shut up,_ but holds no spite in it.

“Piper,” Alex repeats, and it sounds like bad poetry turned into a pretty indie song. “Do you think it’s time to introduce me properly to your royal organic dog?”

.

She doesn’t know what it is that Alex Vause does, but Granola loves it. She greets her as if they’re best friends already, as if she’s been waiting for her, jumping around and falling back and showing her belly for cuddles. Something inside Piper feels warm, trying to remember the last time someone showed such affection to her dog, aside from her and Cal. Polly and her mother would rather stay away from Granola while her father would simply ignore her, as for Larry, well, she’s always felt lucky that he’s tolerating her presence in their flat. It’s completely fine not to like dogs, and Piper has never blamed him for that. It just feels good to have such feelings of devotion for the dog who’s no less than her companion, her child and best friend, shared with another person, without having to feel like a constant burden.

Granola sits obediently for Piper to put on her leash, wagging her tail and tongue hanging out of her mouth. Alex’s hoarse voice is not made for baby-talking, yet it feels like Piper’s got the privilege to have more and more hidden parts of the other woman unveiled in such a short period of time, one after the other, before she even asks for it.

It feels weird having her at home, at the place she calls home with Larry, at dealing with the feeling that she might fit there, that she might fit everywhere even though no place seems fitting (and) _enough_ for her. Walking out is relief, sharing a pavement is a wonder and figuring the right thing to say a challenge. She learns so much and yet so little. Alex doesn’t hide things, not those which are meant to shock her, and her honesty almost scares Piper. There is a life so far away from what she’s dreamt and what she’s worked so hard for. She loves her good life now, she loves the bonds she’s created and the things she has in common with the people who surround her, she loves her dog and she loves her apartment and she loves the job she’s given everything to. And most importantly, she loves Larry. She really does, and it assures her, and it makes walking in the park with her dog and a gorgeous, mysterious lady feel as excused and harmless as the milkshakes they shared, as a game of fetch and a long conversation of reinventing herself.

They’re sitting on a bench at the park when Alex offers to show her how a tattoo gun works, Granola tired and happy and curled up on their feet, and the sun has set the violets by raining cherry petals, and Piper should probably go home, but she can’t remember the last time she felt so lazy and excited and _good,_ and her cheeks hurt from laughing.

Alex raises her eyes from the dog she’s been petting and turns to Piper with a crooked grin, holding her tongue pressed behind her lips, as if she’s holding something, a surreal confession, a journal entry. “What are you thinking about, Princess?”

She drags her eyes away from the stick she’s been fiddling with, and faces Alex without fear. “Have you ever felt the difference, like when you’re meant to be somewhere and to follow somebody, when your whole fuckin life you’ve been cut and shaped into a piece of a jigsaw puzzle? But then, suddenly, you discover a place you never knew existed.”

“There’ll come a time when all your late night thoughts will start making sense, and you’ll have to do something about it,” the dark haired woman replies hoarsely. “Do _you_ have anywhere to be?”

She doesn’t think it through, not really. It feels the right thing to say, deceiving none of the sides, and betraying them both. “Larry’s waiting for me.” She’s not lying, she’s not hiding anything, she isn’t letting him out or down or forgetting him, she just isn’t filling the outline of the truth with unnecessary colors.

Piper doesn’t know if she succeeds or if she fucks up or if she ruins it forever. All she knows is that Granola is hungry, and Alex is looking away, lighting a cigarette, expression never hidden but always in code. There’s something about her, her body posture, the bridge of her wrists, her shadow meddling into the light. Everything fits into place, she’s not too big for her skin, or too small for her words. Every movement flows like watercolors.

“Will I see you at the next meeting, Alex?”

_that I’ll never have you stop begging  
to see me again_

 “You can count on it, Pipes.”


	4. Imaginary Comrades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t – you don’t get to do this!” Piper gasps, looking around the room, furious, as if she’s trapped in a videogame, lost and disorientated.   
> “Why pretend you didn’t want that to happen?” Alex’s lips are tightly pressed together, as if trying to hide the shameful swelling, as if she’s changed her mind. “I’m willing to come second, Pipes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I know it’s taken me fucking long to update but I was on holiday, and I’m leaving for London tomorrow on 6am so I might disappear for a couple of weeks again, also the roadtrip fic took away some of my time. But anyway, here we are, this is kind of a filler chapter and I’m not really satisfied with it but I wanted to introduce some characters. I’ve made Mendoza really angry but think of it that way: she’s been through a shitload. She works for Cesar and Aleida fuckin Diaz, makes awesome pizzas with limited ingredients and gets shit about that, and has Soso squad on her back, protesting for fuck knows what. As for Suzanne, I’m really anxious I might have not caught the depth of her character, so please tell me your opinions so that I can improve! There’s also some Vauseman action, and the dreaded Polly and Larry whom I suck at writing. At this point I still feel kinda bad for him cause he hasn’t done anything wrong aside from being a jerk about Piper’s sexuality, but well... There’s also some Taystee and Poussey I hope I haven’t fucked up in their characterizations, and sorry for the inevitable Neruda bit. There's gonna be more poetry with the two of them, and I wanted to start with the beautiful clichés.   
> Next chapter's gonna have much more action.  
> Warnings: Sexual content, mentions of pot use.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome!

It amazes even the most cynical and disbelieving of the group, the motivation they find, the determination that a bunch of girls preaching their rights, despite all the differences and incompatibilities of their characters can give. As for the most easily believing, on the other end of the spectrum, they’re still taken by surprise by the response a godforsaken group that started from scratch from people who could barely agree with each other would receive.

The first and most important addition to their group is Burset, who soon becomes a leading figure, surprising everyone who remembers that she has always been diplomatic, never really leaving her beauty salon to mingle with the gossip and the drama of the neighborhood. Boo is a harder cause: she does Pride in her own, non-political, party-hard-fuck-harder kind of way yet she comes, presumably for the endless vagina possibilities. Even Red gets invested in the process, even though no one can really tell if she’s merely focused on making it easier for her protégés. As for her friend, Sister Ingalls, a former nun with double experience with protesting as than all of theirs put together and a big audience in the mommy book club, interested in Jesus and revolution, they haven’t managed to recruit her yet.

The big revelation though is Gloria Mendoza, who bursts into the shop like a furious Avenger just on time for Daya’s excellent pro-choice and not-asking-for-it designs, which she presents to the rest of the group while saying something pretty nasty about Aleida and her _own_ choices.

“You speak better ‘bout your mother!” she says disapprovingly, lightly smacking the back of the young artist’s head before turning to all the others who look dead frozen behind their crafts and notes and pamphlets. “This is brilliant!” she snorts at Soso, Maritza and Flaca. “You done protesting bout fuckin pineapple and crust so now you’re all eligible to save the world, huh? You got finals, your parents paying so that you can shove some fuckin knowledge in your empty little heads!”

“But it’s Pride!” Flaca protests. “We gotta participate!”

“Besides our protest were reasonable, and we weren’t protesting specifically against _you_ but against the business you’re working for!” Soso says. “Actually we were protesting _for_ you and your rights as a worker!”

“Listen to this little _rebelde_!” Mendoza throws her hands in the air, sarcasm palpable in her voice. “They were protesting cause my pizza has less tomato sauce than cheese!”

“But it _does_ have so little cheese!” Maritza protests.

Mendoza throws her head back with despair. “Ay, d _ios mío._ ”

“Sounds interesting,” Nicky says blankly, a brush of red paint hanging on her hand.

“Yeah, my life’s fuckin hilarious, ain’t it Blanca? _You_ sent these shrimps to get’em off yours and your mama’s back and now you start a revolutionary group with them!”

“Is there a problem?” Red steps forward, holding a rather intimidating spoon.

“Yes Roja, there is a fuckin problem.” Mendoza faces her, purses her lips, places her hands on her waist. “You and your kindergarten getting ready to stick it to the man, but nobody told _me_ nothing! I work with fuckin Cezar and his harem, don’t nobody care about what _I_ got to say about feminism?”

Silence falls. “We would very much appreciate your help for our cause, Gloria,” Red says eventually.

“We'd also appreciate some calzones,” Maritza shouts through the crowd, but shuts up with the deathly glare she receives.

“The hell you would,” Mendoza raises her eyebrows, and pulls back a chair.

.

Taystee, Soso and Flaca are the last to go, leaving behind takeaway leftovers. Today’s meeting has been more of a workshop where they decided on slogans and designed pamphlets and signs and has taken place in Nicky’s place, since Red threatened them with culinary equipment of ambiguous safety standards to take their paint away from her kitchen. Piper is painting a huge YES WE’RE BI, NO YOU CAN’T WATCH sign in the pink and purple bi tones, spread over Nicky’s Corian kitchen counter, while Nicky herself is out of it in one of the several bedrooms, probably with a rather exhausted Lorna atop of her, in various stages of undress. Alex is using the same buckets of color to accentuate the rainbows on her HOW DARE YOU PRESUME I’M HETEROSEXUAL sign, avoiding Piper’s eye as much as possible, without neglecting to be generous with her little dangerous smirks and heavy-voiced jokes that make Piper crack up and snort out of her nose even when she doesn’t want to.

They’re dancing around it, literally rather than metaphorically. Huge Nicky’s apartment may be, but the kitchen obviously reflects the level of involvement it has in her owner’s life: tiny so they keep bumping on each other, shoulders brushing together. They’re high on coffee, (not that a fair share of weed has not been smoked since morning), and it’s that part of the day when the caffeine-induced tension is starting to mellow down, leaving some space for hyper-productivity, but making them feel comfortable, warm, as if the blood in their veins has turned to caramel macchiato and is messing with their minds, making them feel like this is all they’re destined about,  bare feet on a dimly lit kitchen floor, cold leftovers and piss-warm beers that Piper shares from Alex’s bottle, careful not to wipe the round scarlet lipstick stain the other woman has left with her lips, careful not to leave an imprint of her heartbeat as it picked up as Alex teased her in her hoarse voice, whined at her to take a break and come sit with her, called her _Pipes_ like she has been born with that undeniable right.

Music is coming from Alex’s iPhone, and she looks quite relieved that Nicky’s nowhere to be seen, to mock her for the excessive Lykke Li playlist. It’s around 10pm when their concentration starts faltering, and they find themselves making impressions of people, Alex clutching her tummy, aching with laughter at all the different faces Piper can pull, even though Alex’s “You don’t like my food honey, it’s your problem” in a heavy Russian accent is so far the winning number. They’re laughing at the memory of the baby officer Piper had to seduce into signing their protest forms, while fighting with paint all over Nicky’s expensive kitchen – thankfully covered in newspaper, not that Nicky would have anything more to say than a witty ‘fuckin Jackson Pollock’ comeback if they covered the counter in paint.

“Wanna know how dudebros like the officer who signed our protest permit today choose to hit on me in bars?” Alex asks rather seriously. Piper chuckles, remembering the kid officer who told Alex she was too pretty to be gay, her hands trying to catch Alex’s wrists in the air, casualties being green and orange stains on her denim overalls. “It could prove to be useful to you, for future reference.”

“Pray tell me, what’s their flawless technique? Offering to turn you straight?”

“That too,” Alex fights back, startling Piper by cupping her left hand, locking her fingers between her own in a way that she can’t move them, or maybe doesn’t really want to. Her normally soft, milky skin, is now rough with dried indigo paint, matching the ombre strands on her midnight black hair. She’s a goddess, and Piper feels the tension in her wrists breaking. Her thumb brushes over the back of Alex’s hand, leaving stains of magenta. “They take off my glasses and wear them.”

Piper raises her eyes, meeting her own. Thick lenses indeed part the different shades of grey (the phrasing doesn’t make her want to vomit, no unnerving references to cringeworthy literature about abusive relationships and taking the feminist movement fifty years back is enough to sink in when Alex Vause is staring at her, burning into her skin). She doesn’t know what drives Alex to loosen the grip on her hands, but she’s now able to reach for her glasses and take them off, feeling silly and wrong and so. very. powerless.

She brings Alex’s thick rimmed glasses to her face, careful not to stain them with all the colors of bisexual pride she’s got on her fingers. The room goes blurry, her head feels dizzy. “Wow, you really are blind!”

“See, good dudebro comeback! It’s like you’re a natural.” Alex squints her eyes. It’s kind of adorable, but then again it isn’t, because Alex doesn’t do adorable. Alex does fierce, ravishing, shoving her back against a wall only with those silver eyes of her and sucking her breath in her dreams. Her hands somehow find their way to Piper’s face, reclaiming her glasses and masterfully managing to grab her hands in the process. “For the patently obvious.” Her voice is hushed, raspy, a strategic attack. Piper surrenders. She pulls her hands away, dragging Alex’s grip towards her as well. Their tangled fingers press against Piper’s chest, staining the denim with rainbows.  

“I’m painting your clothes,” she says huskily.

“Isn’t that what you do for a living? Paint people.” She can feel Alex’s hot breath brush faintly on her face, pressing heavy on her eyelids. She drags her fingers away from the bouquet pressed against her chest, feeling Alex’s skin flinch as she brings them to trace the rose tattoo on her arm, peeking under her sleeve. “You paint yourself?”

“I let other people paint me,” Alex mutters and Piper feels drowned. She wants to punch the lump in her throat away, she wants to punch a wall, punch people. It’s stubborn and weakening and boils under her ribs. She lets her fingers trace turquoise lines down Alex’s arm because that way she gets to paint her too. She holds her breath, the radio is humming dizzy, she makes a mental effort to synchronize her heart with the song, make it calm down, find a pace that’s not peaceful protest turned to a riot. “What’s wrong, Princess? You look like a deer caught in traffic lights.”

“Stop calling me Princess,” she says in a pathetic, tiny voice. “Stop looking at me that way.”

“What way?” Alex lifts an eyebrow, Piper’s heart stomps in protest against her ribcage.

“Like you know something I don’t.”

“Calm your tits kid, you went to Smith, you know everything,” Alex jokes, but Piper can’t have it, Piper feels angry, with the smugness on her perfect face, with herself, with the sweet messages answered just as sweetly in her phone, Larry asking whether he should order takeout, whether she’ll eat with her friends. Larry thinks this whole activism thing is an alternative to yoga class, a hobby to keep her occupied.

“I gotta go,” her stomach is tied in a tight knot, her feet feel too flat against the door, her body too heavy. “Larry’s waiting for me.”

Alex looks at her sharp, silent, then lowers her eyes, throws her a smile, slaps her with it. “Sure,” she purrs, running her fingers up and down Piper’s arm, turning it over, tracing her thumb over the blue veins on her pulse.  They’re covered in paint, her skin is sticky and pulling, stretching over the armies of ants that crawl under her skin. She feels like a pressed flower, young and clueless, spread over and suffocated, stuck between words. “Tell Larry-Barry I say hi.” She takes Piper’s hand in both of her own, lifting her wrist so close to her lips, as if inspecting the skin she’s about to tattoo, as if she’s trying to burn it transparent with her breath. “Tell him I say he’s a lucky fuckin bastard.”

“Alex,” Piper breathes or hyperventilates or simply tries to introduce herself to a skin that feels foreign, to those new, painted fingers that ache with desire, to the ticking bomb sunk in the pit of her stomach. “What _the hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

Alex stares at her behind her glasses without blinking, eyes still, _obscene,_ before she lowers them on her wrist, pressing a dark butterfly on her skin with her lips, claiming the trembling of her knees, giving it pace. “You.”

“I’m engaged,” she mouths, short-winded. “I’m engaged to be married to a man.” _A man who loves me. A man who cuddles me when I’ve got nightmares and tells me I look beautiful. A man who buys me tampons and orders takeout before I get home so that it’ll still be warm when I arrive. A man I love._

_A man I can’t really picture right now, because my head’s too full of you, and you’re pressing so hard against my brain I can barely see._

“Cocky. You say that again and again, as if I’m threatening you. Maybe it’s _you_ who really does the threatening.”

“Oh, so _I’m_ cocky? Not – not _you_? Assuming everyone’s there waiting for you to… to walk them like they’re your dog, to show them how to have fun and how to love and… and to have your hands all over the place?”

Alex simply raises an eyebrow over her glasses. “Tell me Doris Day, will you still be engaged on Saturday?”

“Yes,” Piper takes her hand away from Alex, gradually regaining her composure, feeling tipsy, warm. “Yes I still will be engaged on Saturday.”

“Do engaged girls party? I’m sorry, I haven’t read the protocol lately,” Alex asks, a faint smirk flickering on her lips. “Do engaged girls I really _really like_ dance and drink and return to their hubby in the morning? Do they take day offs?”

“Smooth. What… what kind of party even is that?” Piper asks, intending to sound sarcastic but coming out curious, almost hypnotized, as if by the slow, eerie song coming from Alex’s iPhone, eyes following the taller woman’s hands as they move away from her, wipe the paint on the black of her top, lock on Piper’s waist.

“Our little team is throwing a party. Nicky and Lorna will be there, some of the other girls too. Come, you look like you could use a break from playing housewife.”

She decides to ignore the last part, it doesn’t even make sense in her head anymore, her life doesn’t. “Do you mean _your_ little… team? As in, your little drug pushing friends?”

“Who said that?” Alex quirks her eyebrows impatiently, pulling Piper close rather demandingly, filling her head with the rich scent of roses. “I mean _our_ little time. As in our group, Pipes. The Latina girls, more precisely.”

“What are you trying to do, Alex?” Piper says, and it would be playful if it wasn’t so drained of strength. “Corrupt me?” She finds her own arms stumbling away from her body, circling Alex’s figure, hands tracing lines on her ribs. “What’s in it for you?”

“Just the two of us, one time, on Saturday. Does that sound fair?” She pulls her closer, pressing their chests together. “Tell me Pipes,” her heart’s a thunder trying to crawl up the other’s body. “Do I deserve that?”

_Yes, yes you deserve that. You deserve everything, my skin, the heart I’m hurting, my life that’s not enough. You deserve leaving people alone around you, so that you’ll never be lonely._

“I really like you, kid.”

“I really like you too,” she blows, hands tugging blindly on the fabric of her shirt, feeling drunk and restless and wicked. “I like spending time with you.”

She lets her win without a fight. She expects her lips to taste like paint. They’re just smokey, like she’s swallowing fire that’s soft and sweet, like she’s swallowing roses and the dim lamplight of the room. She’s numb and the room is dancing. Her heart sinks lower and lower, too hot, too big for her body, as if she’s swallowed poison and it’s pressing her organs down a trap door. Her phone buzzes on the counter. Alex’s fingers brush away her hair, her lips falter. Piper stumbles, tries to say something. Her eyelids try to get used to the dark, to the earthquake.

“What did you do?” she croaks, resting back against the counter.

“I don’t know princess, what’d it look like to you?”

“You can’t – you don’t get to do this!” Piper gasps, looking around the room, furious, as if she’s trapped in a videogame, lost and disorientated, searching for the exit, not sure if she wants to find it, not sure if she’s keeping the life she’s got left, if she chose it or the enemy or the friend and the team she’s with.

“Why pretend you didn’t want that to happen?” Ale’xs lips are pressed together, as if trying to hide the shameful swelling, as if she’s changed her mind. “I’m willing to come second, Pipes.”

Her phone buzzes again. She thinks she’ll scream, or have a panic attack. This is unfair and it’s painful, and for this once, she knows she never had a choice, she could never have anything but denial, not this, nothing whole, she’s fucked everything up. Alex stares at her as if she’s hurt her, as if she’ll wait.

Her bag. Her jacket. One shoe, her step misses her body. Her phone.

**[From: Larry|23:36] I’m going to bed babe, long day 2morrow. Walked Granola. Sushi in the fridge.**

**[From: Larry|23:38] Love u ;)**

.

**[To: Larry|00:14] Emergency at Polly’s. Pete and pregnancy can’t fit together in the same sentence.**

**[To: Larry|00:16] Might be late. See you and Granola tomorrow xx**

She shows up at Polly’s doorstep after midnight, shaking without the blazer she’s left back at Nicky’s. She’s been lucky about the cleansing night breeze: she’s avoided taxis and walked through here, figuring out how to breathe midway. Her hands steer clear her phone after that. She’s felt it buzz once but didn’t pick it up, her chest is an ugly circus and her heart is crashing on the tent, hanging from a string.

“What the hell, Piper?” Polly greets her, clad in Ralph Lauren maternity from head to toe. She looks alarmed alright, and Piper can’t pretend she’s not at least a bit relieved that someone does. “Where’s Larry?”

She hates the sob that shakes her torso, she hates not having it together more than anything, but she’s fucked up and she needs to fix it, or else she’ll lose everything. “Pol? Can we talk?”

Polly drags her inside and shuts the door behind her. Ice cream and wine appear almost magically. Polly looks torn between craving and loathing them both. Her hands are resting on her still round stomach and she looks tired. Piper feels even worse. She wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt and she only really realizes she’s been crying when Polly shoves a box of cleenex on her lap and cries “Hey! You’ll ruin your American Vintage! What on earth happened, Pipes? Is it Cal and his Save the Whales girlfriend? Did she embarrass you in front of your hippie club?”

Piper looks up, blowing her nose. “No. No, it’s an activism group and I haven’t told her about it yet. Polly, I did something horrible…”

Polly leans forward, looking concerned. “You did drugs? You know I’m not gonna judge you, I mean I thought we were too old for pot but, if it’s something else Pipes, you know you can deal with it… Does Larry know?”

Piper’s sob is loud, gross, and Polly finally seems to understand the severity of the situation. “Shit. Did you two fight? I’m telling you wedding planning turns them all into five year olds.”

“I’ve met someone.”

Polly goes silent, eyes going wide as she bites her lower lip. “Well, fuck,” she says eventually, opening the bottle of wine and handing it over to her friend without bothering with glasses. “Help yourself, it’s vintage or whatever, fucked if I know, since I’m not allowed to _drink_ … Hey, I didn’t mean get pissed out of your mind,” she pulls on Piper’s arm, realizing she’s already halfway through the bottle. “So, you met someone, big fucking deal! Being in a relationship doesn’t mean you can’t meet people. You’re not going to hell for cheating on Larry _with your mind_ Pipes, because hell doesn’t fucking _exist_!”

Piper takes a deep, shaky breath. “I kissed her…”

Polly brings her hands to her mouth, shocked. “No.”

“Y…yyes!” Piper whimpers. “I mean… she kissed me first so it technically wasn’t my fault, but…”

“She?” She interrupts her, raising a hand. “You said _she_ kissed you? You don’t mean Nicky Joplin Nichols? Is it one of her lezzy friends?”

“Yes. _No._ Alex and I – we’re working together. For Pride.”

“I knew this whole activism hippie business wouldn’t turn out to be good! You should have come with me to yoga class, now I’m stuck with pissed off pregnant chicks. I mean, pissed off pregnant chicks other than myself! So anyway, tell me about her, how did it happen? Are you gay now?”

“Polly,” Piper holds her hands up, head spinning violently. “I’m not… I don’t know – I mean I’m nothing now that I wasn’t before, I’m just… I never imagined someone could exist like… like her.”

“What, she’s like some kind of a lesbian superhero? Like… a Supercunt?” Polly snorts. “I don’t know, Piper. I mean, you can’t tell Larry anything. Just, stop thinking about her, okay? It was just a kiss. You were probably drunk. You were _definitely_ drunk. You’re getting married, Pipes. You’re excited. You’re scared of growing up and settling down and all, I know it’s scary. Hell, I’ve got the baby from Twilight growing inside of me _because_ I’ve got married. I don’t remember what color my toenails are. It’s okay to be scary. Maybe you’re attracted to that person too, doesn’t mean the world has come to an end though, does it? Women do that. We’re affectionate. Now forget about it and just go be friends with her or something!”

“Right,” Piper smiles, as if it’s alright, only it really isn’t. “Of course. Thank you, Pols.”

“Just don’t you dare replace me with Supercunt as your bestie!”

“Never, Pols. You’ll always be my bestie.”

.

“You look knackered,” Larry says in the morning, making pancakes in the kitchen with Granola barking around in delirium at the scent of fresh breakfast. “Making a change in the world looks no easy business!”

“I guess it isn’t,” she stirs her muesli with her spoon rather miserably, dark circles puffing around her eyes. “What?” she turns to Granola who’s trying to balance with her paws on the kitchen table. “That’s not puppy food!”

“Just let the poor dog have some Kellogg’s or whatever you’re having!” Larry huffs, placing a plate of pancakes in front of her.

“We can’t just feed her anything she asks for! She’ll get sick and she’ll grow with no discipline!”

Larry takes a seat next her at the table. “I swear this barking’s gonna drive me crazy. The neighbors are gonna call the cops. She peed in the bathroom yesterday. Did I tell you she peed in the bathroom? Next thing’s gonna be my desk. Hey buddy,” he calls, throwing her a bite of his pancake. “Don’t pee on my desk!”

“She’s a girl!” Piper snaps.

“Right, sorry sweetie.”

“Don’t call me sweetie!”

“Sorry Leonard. Hey, you sure you’re okay? Are they wearing you off too much? They know you got a full time job, right?”

“They’re not wearing me off. We’re all working together for a greater cause. The parade’s just in two weeks, we’re trying to give a more political, intersectional note to the whole party climate that ignores history and all the different shades of marginalized people.”

“Sounds good,” Larry nods approvingly. “I don’t know, more efficient to their agenda than dressing up like Richard Simmons and dry humping. I mean, no offence but who can take you seriously when you do that?” He shrugs his shoulders almost by instinct, almost apologetically. _They_ echoes like the beginning of a headache, a bell ringing in rage beneath Piper’s meninges. As if she and Larry are a team, outsiders, or scratch that. They’re the norm. _The girls_ are outsiders, the queers. Piper and Larry are proud allies, generous and kind deliverers of justice.

It sounds so wrong.

Like, she’s always felt like she and Larry were a team, a highly functional, productive, happy team, based on love and companionship with their inside jokes and their secret languages. But now, now Piper feels like she’s learning new words, idioms she can’t share, like she’s moving on while Larry stays still. Larry is what keeps her full, what keeps her grounded, what makes a life she tried to break free from worth living. She keeps her connected with her worlds yet suddenly she doesn’t entirely feel like she belongs there. Solid earth shakes beneath her feet.

She's been missing so many things all this time and she found them, between these women and their originality, the differences that part them and the convictions that bring them together, more important and deep than any belief she's shared with her loved ones. She finds herself trapped between two worlds, not quite fitting in either. She's the Venn diagram of them, or not even that, and it's scary. There are no sides in her personality that show under different circumstances, there can't be. She's just Piper, she's a whole, yet she's torn and stuck and really fucking scared.

 

"I've got an idea," he grins mischievously, standing up again as she fiddles with her fork and hugging her from behind. "Let's have a bath."

 

She's always loved water. It is her happy place. Was her happy place. She doesn't even know anymore. She remembers pretending to be a mermaid in the pool while Cal fired away with his water gun. She loves giving Granola a bath, the only time when she thinks of having a child is the comfort of it, both of them sinking down a warm womb, holding onto each other, small and vulnerable and together. Does she even want to have a child anymore? 

 

She sells soaps, for fuck's sake. Cleansing is what she does, lying around with her eyes shut in bergamot and almond oil and gardenia and let the tension be released from her muscles, feeling like everything's going to be alright. And now? Now she finds herself hating the idea of it, the artificiality, having to cleanse herself of the muck, of an early summer induced dryness in her lungs, of panic and guilt and fucking up. Bubble baths are a bandaid, pampering you and wrapping you in an aromatic blanket before life covers you up in cold sweat again, and then you find yourself running around in circles, trapped in a hamster wheel.

 

Larry gives Granola a rubber bone to chew in the kitchen and dives into the bathtub, wrapping Piper in his arms. It's vanilla with undertones of orange blossom and mango, and makes the water go orange with tiny white bubbles, like jasmines floating around them. She should feel calm, pure.

 

Larry's large, comforting hands are travelling over her torso, cupping her breasts. His lips are wet on her shoulders. _Her mouth was warm, teeth tugging demandingly on her lower lip, her hands soft and needy, fingers tangled between her hair, sending waves of electricity through her ribs._ Larry presses his chest against her back, props her up on his lap. He's hard and waiting for her to throw her head back, expose her throat for his kisses. His fingers work her open underwater yet she flinches away, feeling wronged. _Her image pops back into her head, uninvited, trespassing her way through with a smirk on her face. They're underwater, waves flapping around their heads, ear-height, echoing between their salty kisses. She isn't wearing her glasses and Piper's got the advantage, pressed up against her chest, savoring her, legs wrapped wet around her waist, black hair glimmering as they float, contrasting with her eyes, contrasting with the sea, and Piper dives in them, spasming against her mouth._

 

She's supposed to feel clean yet Larry's touch on her body makes her feel dirty. She hates to pretend and she hates things in her mind that change. She's feeling messy, vulnerable, exposed. He doesn't deserve that. She's a horrible person and everything she's doing feels like a lie. She takes Larry in her hands and makes him feel good, unaware of why she's keeping her own skin away, unaware of the crippling guilt that's gnawing on it. She loves him so much that it hurts, in all the wrong ways, and she's looking through a mirror that’s standing between them, a lying, broken one, looking back at her with sexy thick-rimmed glasses and transparent skin. 

 

She's wiping herself clean, clean of their touches, clean of the smiles that make her face muscles itch. "You look beautiful," Larry murmurs. _"I really like you too, kid," she breathes raspy on her skin._

 

She's been building a fort around her since the day she met her.

.

In retrospect, she’s always been a stupid, over-excited little piece of shit. She’s been threadbare, easy, like the sky above the park as they lie on the grass, messy with pink cherry blossoms, buzzing ugly against the clarity she wishes was in her head, struck with the sharp cotton lines a plane draws between the swirling branches, sharing the same breeze that brushes up against Taystee’s cheeks. She’s sitting on the grass, a pair of Lolita heart sunglasses on her face, a half-finished cream and strawberry milkshake on one hand and a book about the secret mathematics hidden in Simpsons on the other. Poussey has her head on her lap and in between moments that she drags and tangles and knits until they form a spider’s web of touches, she strokes her face absently, hands cold and damp by holding her milkshake, or she presses it jokingly against her abdomen, giggles little butterfly kisses on her forehead, showing her affection in ways only she can. Poussey can hear her breath and she hides behind her Lennon glasses foolishly, a drunk ostrich, stumbling her way through her third bottle of beer that lies on the grass next to them. Her thoughts are a whirlwind, sucking her down, turning her inside out, a rusty anchor lying low somewhere in her torso until she forgets how to breathe. Taystee smells like coconut and books and drags featherweight circles on her arms and there’s sun, lots of it, and her skin feels like sandpaper, like she’s swallowing diamonds.

“You ever been to Pride before?” she hears herself asking. They’re taking a break from all of it, from their part time jobs at Miss Claudette’s, from their activist group, from plans and future and plane tickets, and from never staying in one place that had springs complete with pink blossoms enough to feel oppressed by it. Just one lunch break of holding each other like they always do and she already misses her, accustomed to flying away, to clutching her phone over her heart stupid _stupid_ building people and promises through clay and legos and Skype, and they’re still thinking about their preparations.

“Once,” Taystee replies, not lowering her book. “Vee got real mad when she found out. Hey, hear that pun, _π_ _r 2_!”

“That’s some stupid shit.”

“No _listen,_ pie-are-square!” Taystee snorts laughter out of her noise.

“I’m telling you this is some white people stupid shit, T!” she complains, cringing at the bad joke. “I don’t believe you be laughin at that!”

“Hey, calm yo’tits!” Taystee peers defensively out of her book, tugging on Poussey’s slightly older one. “You reading old white men talking ‘bout love again?” she attempts to tease her back.

“Neruda’s _Chilean,_ man!”

“I declare bullshit! Go read some Audre Lorde!”

“Then _you_ leave them Simpsons alone and go watch some Sense 8!”

“I _told_ ya I’ll get round to it! Y’know I’m not that big on TV!”

“Oh heaven forfend!” Poussey wears her Mackenzie voice. “Me neither. I only watch documentaries. ‘Tis where I learnt how to sell marijuana!”

Taystee is not in the mood to play Amanda. She cracks a smile but returns to her book. “Hey, go back to reading Neruda’s mother-of-pearl of a body and all that shit for the sixteenth fricking time P and stop spamming me, I’ve reached the good part that talks ‘bout the baseball episode and the Narcissus numbers!”

“Oh, but surely you must mean the Chapman numbers?”

Apparently she _is_ in the mood to play Chapman. “Behold plebeians, for I’m here to deliver your tormented souls! I am 153, and I am equal to the sum of 1, 5 and 3, each of them raised raised on the third power,which is the number of my digits! In my spare time I play in badass feminist video clips such as Bad Blood where I wear leather and fight other bitches, and I’m as engaged and straight as my hot ass rocker girlfriend! I’m here to be a noble leader to your movement, but first let me take a selfie!”

They’re doing things in the wrong order, starting with laughing before they even get in a tickling match. Taystee is screeching with laughter as she tries to kick Poussey away, ending up leaning over her, holding her wrists back against the grass. Poussey’s book is lying open next to her head and Taystee can read through her. It might be one of the most famous poems in the world yet she feels naked, exposed, and she wants to curl up on the soil. Look away, kick her back, rinse, and repeat.

She’s nowhere near drunk enough. What even are the odds?

_How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,  
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running_

“Mhmm, I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees?” Taystee hums, hoarse, foreign, amused.

She’s tired of running around.

She seals the shame with a kiss, brief enough to taste traumatic, a nightmare, the one where she’s always traveling away, where she’s running in some airport but her socks are bound with iron balls, the one where she’s used her best friend’s fingers as a fire escape and climbed up them and kissed her, and she tasted of plums and honeysuckle.

“I’m not … You know I don’t – ” Taystee pulls away, breathless. “Sorry, P,” she mutters softly, wrapping her hand around her knuckles where blood seems to have stopped flowing, blocking the way. “I think you’re drunk.”

_You’re drunk for loving me so hard. You’re drunk of thinking I could love you back._

She swallows hard, feeling the huge rusty anchor in her chest crawl its way up her throat and then down, up and then down like a broken lift and a plane that’s undecided with a death wish…

“I know.”

_Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?  
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed_

.

Nicky is a moth drawn to the lamp, a lamp that talks a fuckload, both literally and metaphorically. If there’s a thing, however, that Lorna does more excessively than talk, has got to be screaming.

“Oh, ow I’m coming Nicky… I’m _coming_!”

Which she does. Also quite a lot, on Nicky’s fingers. On her tongue. On the backseat of her car, on the counter of the backroom of Red’s café, against Red’s better judgment. Nicky fucks her tentatively and sometimes Lorna fucks her as well with clumsy, unsteady steps, and excessive force that she probably doesn’t understand she owns, leaving hickeys and teeth marks and bruises from excessive groping underneath Nicky’s tits, giggling uncertainly, if not slightly proud when she finds out afterwards. Nicky is turning voluntarily blind towards the possibility of a life without Lorna’s touch in it, clings on the half-shaped thing she’s got with enthusiasm, getting away from apathy and used to a heart that’s floating above the surface, feeling it in her mouth, in places she hadn’t felt it before.

Sometimes when she lies awake at night, or in the early hours of the morning, just before she falls asleep, she thinks _I deserve a fuckin kiss. I deserve much more than that. Fuck Christopher and the stupid molecules of his lips, I hope they all fuckin die_. Because she does. She really does deserve that. But in the morning, and in the few hours after midnight, she doesn’t even dare make a move. It’s the complete opposite from having sex in a chapel: it’s a limit she really wouldn’t dare cross, so they keep it casual.

Casual and unequal, talking about Christopher in between the silence, even comparing his technique to hers (she’s pathetically proud at those moments when she realizes she’s winning). Getting a mere taste of it while she can, eavesdropping in moments when Lorna thinks she’s matte, unreadable, when she thinks she’s got it together but really, she’s coming threadbare in Nicky’s arms. And Nicky feels selfish, and Nicky feels defeated, _it ain’t cheating if it’s with your girlfriend who is a girl who is a friend,_ and she does her best, drags her into the backroom and takes off her clothes (‘You’re wearing too many clothes’ ‘Ya like my clothes? ‘s a new skirt!’ ‘Yeah, too bad you won’t be able to return this one cause I’ll make you come on it’), thrusts in her fast and hard until she’s a writhing mess and maybe, then maybe she can make her stay, maybe she’ll have to stop trying to stretch out the moments.

But they’re cool. It’s fine, it really is. ‘Sides, she’s quite proud of herself. Seeing the expressions of pleasure on girls she’s been handling and grappling, their eyes rolling on the back of their heads, backs arching and lips parted in last has always been Nicky’s fix. Still, that naïve part of hers that romanticizes everything Morello does and lacks priorities, still can’t believe the extent of her achievement, the pride she should feel when Lorna’s tainted voice threatens to break glass, but it’s real and it’s happening.

Until it isn’t.

Lorna whimpers against her, obscene and juicy and hot, she traces absent circles on her sore hand, then sits back, catches her breath, smoothens her skirt. Nicky is ready once again, ready to exchange a joint of smoke for all the air that’ll be sucked out of her lungs, but it’s not what she’s expected when she knows she should. She swallows hard, hopes it doesn’t show, how her muscles spasm for a distorted grin, play it cool until she stays alone in a secluded brick corridor where she’ll be able to fuck shit up and taste blood and burst trash rock through her earphones until she forgets, until she forcibly becomes stupid again, as stupid as she had been, until she stops understanding so much, feeling _so fucking much_.

“It’s better this way, Nichols. Y’know I can’t do that to Christopher. You been so good, such a good friend for me, but we gotta stop. Thanks for all, and stuff.”

She squeezes her knee comfortingly, saying _I just killed ya Nichols, but why the long face, babe, what the fuck is wrong wit’you, that’s some big ol’ drama dyke. Now come help me and Chapman pick wedding dresses. Do that, Nichols, do that cause you love me, do that cause you adore the memory of my slack cunt, do that for the privilege I gave you and cause you’d kill the sun for me._

They don’t fight. She just gives steals the right for herself to be alone, disgust herself alone.

She fuckin deserves it.

.

Morello is sitting alone on a table, scribbling and doodling on a piece of paper in between writing an article for their group’s blog and trimming her nails. Nicky and Boo seem rather preoccupied with some notebook and its contents, and Lorna is feeling neither eager nor welcome enough to participate. There’s that constant feeling of absence and loss, even when she’s surrounded by people, and it seems to be knotting her lungs together, causing her to unconsciously tug on her t-shirt every now and then, as if it’s too tight. She’s dreaming of all the places she could be right now, of all the precious time she’s always losing with serving or working or socializing with people who don’t actually understand.

The only thing that’s making sense anymore is to try and keep a smile on her face and radiate it all around, to turn herself into her mask, to repeat again and again like a prayer how she’s got it together until everybody and herself believe it, and then it can start getting better.

She’s too lost in thoughts full with determination that she doesn’t even realize she’s tightening her fists on the table, until someone pulls a chair next to her. It’s Crazy Eyes, and Lorna looks up at her suspiciously.

“This fell from your jacket,” the other woman extends her hand cautiously, opening her pale palm to reveal a wrinkled photo from a glossy tabloid, showing that slutty bitch on the alley with her arms around Christopher’s waist, wearing his hat. He’s looking so good, and it’s breaking her heart, to know that he’s confused, to know that he’s so lonely…

She grabs it and shoves it clumsily in the pocket of her jeans, looking away. Crazy Eyes pulls her hands close to her chest almost instinctively, as if she’s expecting Morello to attack her. “You’ve got nothing to be jealous of,” she tells her, gesturing down at her legs and to the piece of paper. “I know something that might interest you,” she leans over the table, as if she’s about to share a well-hidden secret. “No one can ever be you, no matter how hard they try. Not the girl who plays in Westside Story, not that stranger in the picture… that’s what the guy you always talk about sees in you, and that be why you don’t need to worry!” She raises her palms to face the ceiling matter-of-factly, before emphatically poking Morello’s shoulder with her index finger. “You being you, that’s all that matters!”

“Thank you, Suzanne,” Morello feels a smile cracking on her face, and it hits her how weird it sounds that it’s the first time she calls Suzanne with her name. She doesn’t know whether she should feel bad. When a person is called crazy, it’s probably because they’ve done some nasty crazy shit to deserve it, right? It’s pure logic, yet it leaves a bad aftertaste in her mouth and she wants to fix it. “Be yourself, ain’t that what all the magazines say?” she hums, patting the black woman’s shoulder.

“Ex _actly_!” Suzanne’s face lights up. “And they’re right!” Because people will only love you _for you_!” she knits her fingers together in a multitude of gestures, “and sometimes they won’t even know it yet!”

“Christopher loves me and he knows it!” Lorna says defensively.

“Sure, but do you know who knows that best?” Suzanne doesn’t even blink. “You!”

Lorna’s sight blurs with tears she doesn’t try to fight back. Maybe it’s okay, to cry, maybe it’s okay if that makes her who she truly is. Maybe she can let people know when they love her. “You’re right,” she nods fervently, laughing shakily through the tears.

“Can I ask you a question?” Suzanne’s voice takes her attention, careful, almost softened, biting her lip. “Why does everyone call me Crazy Eyes?”

Morello looks up at her, feeling dead inside. “I… I don’t know,” she mutters eventually, raising her shoulders in exaggerated distance. “But whatever it is, don’t blame yourself, a’right?”

Suzanne nods solemnly, her eyes twinkling briefly before she wraps her arms around her shoulders, burying her face in the crook of her neck. Morello clings on her almost desperately, until she forgets to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Google says that Девственность means both cherry and virginity, but I've probably fucked up. If anyone knows Russian it'd be major fucking help.


End file.
